


we could be stars

by transstevebucky



Series: rose gold [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Louis in Makeup, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Pining, Platonic Kissing, hl have a plant named arnie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transstevebucky/pseuds/transstevebucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Me watching makeup tutorials.” His voice is shaking. He wants to deny it, but Harry knows everything and stores the information away for perusal afterwards. “It doesn’t mean anything.”</i>
</p><p> <i>Harry nods, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare him away. </i></p><p> <i>“It’s okay if it does mean something, though,” he begins, smooth and gentle, mouth resting against the line of Louis’s jaw. It’s comforting in a way it wouldn’t be with anyone else. “You know that, right?”</i></p><p> <br/>or; Louis falls down the rabbit hole of makeup, and Harry's always there to catch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could be stars

**Author's Note:**

> this is.. the longest thing i've ever written, and it's shamelessly self indulgent.
> 
> a few notes before you read:
> 
> -louis and harry's sexualities (and gender, in louis's case) are explicitly stated in the fic, but are not a key part of the plot. (they're an important part !! but they're not the focus)
> 
> -i only know as much about makeup as it's possible to learn from youtube and people who recommended me lipstick shades that would look good on louis (and also the amount of time it took to check for cruelty free brands), so there's probably incorrect information in this that you should take with a grain of salt. or, like, a handful of salt
> 
> - **there is One instance where liam unintentionally misgenders louis** (by using a gendered word towards him) it's a blink and you miss it kind of thing, but it is there, so if that triggers you, please be aware.
> 
> and finally, i wouldn't have got anywhere with this fic if it weren't for everyone being supportive, but especially if it weren't for bucky, who beta'd this for me and helped me along with it when i felt like death personified. i owe you my life, honestly, and i love you
> 
> FINALLY: the title and lyrics at the beginning of the fic come from a song titled "rose gold" by pentatonix. it's the Unofficial Anthem of the fic for A Lot of Reasons (mainly being that it's bc louis is made of rose gold. anyways)
> 
> hope you enjoy:)

**we could be stars**

_Couldn't fit in only black and white,_  
_If it's true that legends never die,_  
_Me and you could stand the test of time._

 

++

It’s because he’s bored, Louis thinks, chewing on the edge of his nail as he presses play. It’s because they’re on break, and he’s run out of things to do, and these videos are always excessively long, and he wants to kill some time. It’s because he’s run out of videogame Let’s Plays and videos of cats falling off of things, and because Liam hasn’t responded to his message about wanting several of them for his own. It’s not because he wants to be watching it.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he repeats aloud, as if saying it into his freezing living room will change the fact that this definitely means something, even if he doesn’t know what that is yet.

“What doesn’t have to mean anything?” Harry asks, voice light and gentle, the way it always is near him. (Except for when they’re trying to win against each other in Monopoly, but Louis thinks that’s fair enough. Capitalism gets to everyone in the end, he can understand that.)

Louis doesn’t look around to watch Harry pad across the living room, because he already knows his routine of greeting their houseplant (Arnie, because Harry’s shit at naming things), and how he always dramatically steps over their creaky floorboard. (Louis’s told him they can get it fixed, they’re millionaires, it’d take twenty minutes, but Harry insists that it gives the house character. Louis thinks he’s bullshitting, but Harry bullshits all of the time; it’s part of his charm.)

Harry folds himself over the sofa, fingers brushing the nape of Louis’s neck as he squints to see the screen lighting up Louis’s face. Louis has a feeling he knows what this is; protection and worry, like a mother hen. It’s a bit absurd, how Harry is sometimes, but it’s also one of the best things about him. Besides all of the thousands of other incredible things, obviously.

He’s tempted to not say what it is, to forget about it and make a joke about it and act like this whole encounter never happened. But he’s already gotten a glance at the screen, so there’s not really any turning back, as horrifying as that may be.

“Me watching makeup tutorials.” His voice is shaking. He wants to deny it, but Harry knows everything and stores the information away for perusal afterwards. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry nods, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare him away. As if he ever could; he’s about as scary as Doris and Ernest, and they’re not even two.

“It’s okay if it does mean something, though,” he begins, smooth and gentle, mouth resting against the line of Louis’s jaw. It’s comforting in a way it wouldn’t be with anyone else. “You know that, right?”

Louis lets out one tight, shaky breath, and nods. Because he does know, that it’s fine, but. Sometimes he forgets. Harry’s good at helping him remember, for the most part. They’re a team, always have been, always will be. Even if it’s not exactly the type of team Louis wants to be.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’s neck, chin resting on the top of his head, and he’s tempted to mock him for needing to be so close to him after five years of being tucked into each other’s pockets, but the pressure’s comforting. It’s one thing knowing that there’s nothing wrong with liking something, it’s another entirely to know you could  _do_ something about liking it, and the worry feels like it’s pressing behind his eyes. Like this makes him less, somehow. Like his mum’s going to walk around the corner and scold him for it.

“Want me to watch with you?” Louis can feel his voice vibrating through every bone in his spine, a live wire sparking along his nerve endings. It feels a little like fire, and a lot like home.

This isn’t what it’d be like with anyone else, he thinks, this is just Harry. Just Harry, pressed along the back of the sofa, fingers brushing along the skin of his throat, just Harry, telling him there’s nothing wrong with this. Just Harry, supportive as he always has been and ready to fight people who aren’t.

“Please,” he croaks out, because anything else feels like too much.

Harry squeezes tighter.

++

Louis tries not to mention it, but he knows Harry’s watching him as he shuffles around the kitchen, like he’s checking he’s okay. As if it could throw him off that badly, honestly. (Like, maybe it threw him for a loop just how much he liked it, maybe he’s nervous how people would react, but. He can totally overlook that, anyway.)

“It’s nothing,” Louis snaps, probably a bit dramatically, “stop worrying about me. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Harry turns away to hide the grin that spreads on his frog-like face, and Louis honestly has no idea why he lives with him and puts up with this bullying. All it would take is one phone call to Anne and he’d be sorted out, scolded like a puppy who just stole all of the treats in the cupboard.

He watches Harry cook for a little while, his feet swinging against the counter he’s perched on, a little bit amazed even after all this time. It’s a Harry thing; being comforting and warm and supportive, without ever letting up, and yet still finding time to tease Louis about how much of an overreaction everything is. He’s probably a little bit evil.

“You’re evil,” he mumbles, quieter, as Harry passes him a pepper to cut up.

“You’re melodramatic and need to stop thinking the world is against you,” Harry responds, eyebrows dancing like he thinks he’s clever.

“I don’t,” he begins, carving away the stem, “the whole world’s in love with me and I know that.”

If it were anyone else, they’d tell him to stop being so full of himself and to just shut up for once in his life. His mum would smack him across the head and threaten to talk to Zayn about how much Louis’s said he misses him (which is a complete lie anyway), and he’s pretty sure Niall would agree with her. Harry, though.

Harry just rolls his eyes. “We’re all in love with you. Don’t know why, considering you’re a right brat, but.”

And, see. The thing is, Louis’s been halfway in love with Harry for years now (more, on some days, or on most of them, but he’ll never admit that), so that sort of thing should upset him because it’s a joke to him, but it doesn’t. Because as long as he’s got Harry’s attention, he’s not doing too badly. Which Zayn’s told him is ‘fairly telling of soulmate behaviour’ one hundred times in the past (and counting), but Zayn can fuck off, because Harry’s his boy whether or not the infatuation is mutual.

“It’s because I’m made of stardust,” he chirps, handing the strips of pepper over, “Zayn said so.”

“Zayn also said that  _everyone_ is made of stardust, because all the elements were formed at the heart of a star.”

Harry’s such a buzzkill.

“But I’m the best star,” he deadpans, looking Harry right in the face to see if there’s any change in expression.

“You’re the sun,” he relents, face straining as if admitting it pains him, “everyone orbits around you. We’re all planets, etcetera, etcetera.”

Something fizzes in Louis’s chest, but he ignores it. He’s good at that; pretty much professional, even. He’s been pretending he knows all for years now, to save his siblings from worrying and to make people trust him easier, and yeah maybe lying by omission isn’t a great way to do that, but. It’s just how he is.

“You could,” Harry starts, and he sounds a little nervous, which is practically illegal, Louis thinks, “you could talk to me about why you like makeup, though. I like seeing you excited about things. You start glowing.”

Louis flushes, directing his eyes to his toes because he’s vaguely mortified by it. There’s something simultaneously nice about being complimented, and also petrifying, like there’s some hidden agenda behind it.

“I think it’s just,” he bites his lip, thumbing at a tiny rip in his jeans, “how pretty it makes everything. Like, it adds this dash of colour that wasn’t there before, something bright and new, and. I love that, and. There’s a part of me that wants that for myself.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, it just slips out, and he wants to take it back seconds after, mouth already opening to laugh it off, pretend it never happened.

“You’d look great in pink, I think,” Harry responds, flicking the stove on, “or, like, that rose gold people talk about? That’d go really well with your skin tone.”

Louis blinks, because even after all this time he’s still slightly baffled by how gentle and accepting Harry is, like it comes to him naturally. Like it’s just in his DNA; along with all of the other traits that make him who he is; the green eyes and the dimples, and the way his lips get paler when he doesn’t get enough sleep.

“Oh,” he mumbles out loud, instead, because he’s a complete loser, “um. That’s really nice.”

Harry rolls his eyes, “You’re always so shocked by it. Anyone would think you expect me to be the Grinch.”

Louis sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes, which is clearly the most mature response to this blatant call out culture.

There’s a soft sigh, before Harry comes into his line of vision (both of them, because if Louis uncrosses his eyes he’s going to have to face the fact he’s getting emotional, and that won’t do), and kisses him softly on the forehead. It’s gentle, and means nothing, and it feels like he’s floating. Harry does it all the time; this whole kissing thing, loves the intimacy it brings, but it never fails to make him feel safer, which, now he thinks about it, might be the whole point of it.

He leans into it, grinning and sliding his cold hands under his shirt until the muscles under his hands tighten, trying to jump out of the way.

“You’re such an arsehole,” Harry hisses, before wriggling closer between his legs, “I hate you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, darling.”

++

He climbs into bed that night and turns his laptop on, and his fingers aren’t shaking that much any more. It’s an achievement, he thinks, because this is still a little terrifying, still rooted in something more, but he’s calm. Or, he’s not dying, which is practically the same thing, he thinks,

There are recommended videos on the YouTube home page, different techniques for contouring and highlighting, dramatic designs for eyeshadow (that he thinks would snap his wrist in two trying to get it just right), easy ways to wing eyeliner. He pretends there’s no flutter in his stomach at it, realising that he could do all of it, and nothing could stop him.

That he could even learn to do it better, if he tried. That everything these people are doing, all of the smudging out and the blending, the colour correcting and the softly applying lipstick, that it all means nothing.

He watches the videos, and pretends it means nothing, even though it does.

++

It’s been three days, and they’ve not really talked about it, and Louis’d been ready to ignore it ever happened, let it slide behind them and be brushed under the rug, never to be talked about again.  So, obviously, that’s when he notices it.

There’s a note stuck to the fridge, he can see from the other side of the living room, legs crossed under him on the sofa. The note’s bright yellow.  He pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth, milk dribbling down his chin.

“I should check on that,” he tells Arnie, and the Jade plant doesn’t respond. He’s not very sociable, is Arnie.

He sighs, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and putting it on the table, before standing and cracking his back.

Harry never puts notes on the fridge, unless it’s fairly urgent, which. Would actually explain why the milk was on the counter this morning, uncapped and everything. He hadn’t paid much attention to that, because it just meant he could make his cereal easier, which is all he ever needs in life, honestly.

He shuffles into the kitchen, scratching at the light stubble on his cheek, and pulls the note from the cold aluminium.

**had 2 leave 2 pick smthn up frm the post office, srry 4 the mess -harry**

“Huh,” he sticks it onto his head, mostly to keep it safe, “weird.”

Harry never really uses short hand to write notes, besides when he’s annotating a tiny doodle he made (like the Great Scribble Battle of 2011, which Niall still flinches at the mention of). It’s a bit weird that he reverted to that when he had to get a parcel, but. Louis has more important things to ponder, like how good his cereal making is.

Figuring he can ask later if he wants to, he wanders back into the living room and flips on his Macbook and starts chewing on his (perfectly prepared) coco pops as he waits for it to load. It’s getting to the point he should start thinking about getting another, since it’s always on the verge of imploding, but he’s emotionally attached to it. It’s been with him since they got through X Factor, and getting rid of it would feel a little like putting a pet down, or something.

He’s just loading up Twitter when the front door opens, and Harry yells out a sharp “Help!”

Shoving the Macbook to the side, he half-jogs, half-walks his way to the door, pausing to take in the way Harry’s hair is flopped over his forehead. His arms are laden down with a tower of boxes almost as tall as him, which is an achievement considering Harry’s the size of a fucking yeti.

“Christ, what even is this stuff,” Louis asks, diving in and grabbing the top one before Harry topples arse over tit, “how did you not die on the way back?”

Harry huffs, pushing him out of the way and wiggling his way to the kitchen, before he drops it on the counter.

“This,” he announces, motioning to the boxes, before looking at Louis’s face and freezing, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks in confusion, “wait, forget that, why’s the note on your head?”

Louis huffs, ripping it off, rolling it into a ball, and throwing it back at him, “To keep it safe, obviously. Just tell me what it is.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Harry motions again, which is just plain dramatic, “this is makeup. Or. Well, this isn’t makeup, this is makeup  _guides_.”

He looks so proud of himself, eyes sparkling like he’s excited, and something twitches in Louis’s cold, dead heart. Because, like, he’d researched makeup guides, and bought them, and ordered them to be delivered to the post office so he could do the delivery himself, and. And he didn’t need to, at all, but he did it anyway, and Christ. He refuses to cry at this. He’s stronger than that.

“You’re crying,” Harry says, hand rubbing at his jaw, “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong, or-”

Louis drops his own box on the side, and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, fingers reaching up to hook around his shoulders,, nose resting in the gap of his collarbones. It’s so warm, and so good, and he’s at the perfect position to hide his tears this way, which is totally the only reason he’s doing this. Definitely.

Harry curls his arms around his waist in return, chin resting on the top of Louis’s head, and it would be embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact it’s exactly what he needs.

“I take it I didn’t do anything bad, then,” Harry mumbles into his ear, and Louis lets out a tiny sniff in response, shaking his head minutely.

“No, it’s,” he takes a shuddery breath, feeling it rattle behind his ribs, “it’s more than good, thank you. I wouldn’t have done it.”

And it’s the truth, really, because he would have just watched videos on the sly and tried to copy them, instead of actually looking at techniques to fit him. He’d have just spent days getting frustrated and hurt that he couldn’t master everything immediately, and now he’s got something that might help him. And that. Means a lot.

“I looked around, like, to find vegan and cruelty free brands,” his voice crawls down the back of Louis’s neck, but it’s soothing and so good it aches, “and apparently MAC isn’t great with it, because they sell in China, and they legally require animal testing, so. I avoided them, because anyone who hurts bunnies isn’t worthy of service.”

Louis giggles, a little breathless and more than choked up. “You’re such a loser.”

Harry squawks in response, attempting to pull away like he always does when trying to be dramatic, but Louis just clings on tighter, and after a few seconds he stays put, body curling back around him, like a human blanket.

“I love you,” he mumbles, “thank you.”

++

Louis’s in the process of trying to locate his tiny Hulk figurine (because he likes it watching him, not because it reminds him of Zayn),  when Zayn decides to Skype him. He doesn't even bother giving any warning before the call pops up, and Louis grunts in irritation at the fact that he always seems to  _know_. Creepy sixth sense, is what it is. Loves to catch Louis in the act whenever he lets himself slip and get nostalgic.

Louis leans over the camera, so his eyes just barely show, and asks, “Got any games on your phone?”

Zayn lets out a sigh, like he’s hard done by, and honestly Louis hates him with all of his might. He’s hilarious, and deserves respect for every joke that comes tumbling out of his mouth. Harry would have laughed. Harry loves him, which is exactly the reason Louis lives with him.

“I hate every single word that’s ever come out of your mouth,” he says, and Louis thinks it’s a sign that the line crackles out at the end. Clearly he needs to shut the fuck up.

“Weird, because you’re the one who called me, if I recall correctly,” Louis responds, putting the Macbook higher up, so it can show the whole room, and praying it doesn’t shatter over his skull. He’s delicate; that thing could break him clean in two.

“That better not have been a fucking pun,” Zayn warns, like he’s actually threatened by it, and Louis grins into his own shoulder as he bends over to check below his wardrobe.

Zayn wolf whistles, and Louis is tempted to fly to L.A and kick his arse until he shuts the fuck up once and for all. It’d serve him right.

He ignores it anyway, just crawling under his bed until only his feet stick out, and letting out a yell of victory when he finds what he wanted. He drags it out with him, dust clinging to his front, and shows Zayn the small plastic figurine.

He just rolls his eyes, but there’s a vaguely misty sheen to his eyes that Louis’s going to insist are tears to his dying day, so it makes up for it. Zayn’s such a sap, honestly, starts crying at everything. (And even if it is kind of endearing, Zayn never has to know that. He’ll never find out.)

“You never really cared about the Hulk,” he mumbles, voice sounding slightly choked, “you just liked that I liked it.”

“I don’t like anything about you,” Louis responds, gently placing it on the desk, “you’re a menace, and a nuisance, and I’d sell you to Satan for one packet of Hobnobs.”

Zayn looks like he wants to knock himself out on the nearest wall, which is one of the looks Louis loves most on him; especially when it appears so suddenly. It really compliments his whole Vampire Art Teacher vibe he’s got going on (that whole thing isn’t really helped by the fact he has a red theme in his study, because apparently the colour red helps to ‘keep him energized’ and ‘increase his breathing rate’, which totally sounds like something a vampire art teacher would say. Niall agrees, and Niall’s never wrong.)

“Anyway, enough of you being a blatant liar,” Zayn begins, mouth twitching when Louis yelps in protest. “Harry sent me a message last night about how important you are, and even though that’s something he does a lot, we weren’t even talking about you this time.”

 _This time._ That implies they’ve talked about him before, which. Makes him feel a little bit lightheaded. There’s just something nice about knowing two of his favourite people in the world talk about him in regular conversation. (Like, he totally knew that, because Zayn and Harry are the sappiest assholes in the whole world, but. The proof startles him all the same.)

“I didn’t know that,” he says, sitting down and resting his chin in his palms, “it’s cute, though, innit?”

Zayn’s eyes roll skywards.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s really cute,” he coughs something into the crook of his elbow that Louis doesn’t quite catch, “I was just wondering what made him text it.”

Something curls up in Louis’s chest, like it’s telling him to not mention anything and leave it alone, but there’s another voice in his head telling him Zayn would be nothing but supportive and kind. (There’s this unspoken Thing between he and Zayn; where they get each other in a way none of the others do, not even between Louis and Harry. They’re a combined unit, he and Zayn, with the same thoughts and opinions on almost everything, and he knows it’ll be fine, but that doesn’t change the slight thrum of fear pulsing in his veins. He doesn’t know if anything will help that.)

“It’s,” he could leave it there, change the subject and leave it alone, and Zayn would take the hint, because he knows him and loves him, “it’s this whole thing. With. Um.”

There’s a tiny, tiny voice yelling at him, pounding on the sides of his skull, telling him to  _just say it, just fucking say it_.

“Makeup,” he finishes, glancing away from the screen so he doesn’t have to see Zayn’s immediate reaction. “It’s this thing with makeup.”

“Right,” he says, slowly, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not stepping on any toes by accident, “so do you need, like, recommendations, or?”

Louis freezes, heart stuttering in his chest for a beat, before he chokes out a tiny “what?”

Zayn blinks, one microsecond out of time because of the poor connection, and repeats, “do you need recommendations?”

And, like, Louis hadn’t really dared to hope Zayn would be this kind about it; voice gentle, face close to the camera so that all Louis can see is eyes and the top of his nose, like he’s trying to make sure Louis’s not going to lose it and throw himself out of his window. (He won’t. He might have considered it, very briefly, in the silence between admitting his Thing with a capital T and the moment when Zayn opened his mouth, but the urge has gone now. For the most part.) It feels like it always does; this sudden crushing ache in his chest that reminds him just how much he misses him, how good it was to have him around.

Because Harry might be supportive; his best friend, and his confidant, his home, but Zayn is the moments between dawn where they don’t need to speak, where just existing together is enough. There’s never been any pressure with him, and he’s reminded of that now, fingers starting to tremble in his lap just because of what Zayn’s offered him. Just because Zayn’s being kind to him. His attention’s always kind of rattled him, because it’s always felt a bit like being a smaller kid on the playground, next to Zayn. Trying to act cool and not really getting there all the way. (Like, he knows Zayn loves him, and supports him, but being reminded that all of these tiny insecurities are just in his head, it’s. It’s always a little bit startling, all the same.)

“Didn’t know you were a makeup artist,” Louis mumbles, but it sounds off to his own ears, let alone Zayn’s, who knows him better than his own mum. (Could probably rival Jay for the whole protective role, honestly, but he’d never admit to it.)

Zayn rolls his eyes, but it’s not a ‘you’re a fucking nuisance and the worst’ kind of eye roll, it’s a ‘I love you but you’re shit at trying to distract me’ eye roll. He’s an expert in deciphering that kind of thing by now. He’s a certified Zaynologist.

“Stop derailing,” he shuffles back for a second, ruffling through some papers under the desk, so all Louis can see of him is the tiny curve of his waist. Louis barely makes out a tiny, grainy letter “L” on his hip where his shirt’s rolled up before he slides back into view, hair slightly skewed from where he’d been bent over. He’s a fucking loser, Jesus Christ. Who gets their best mate’s initial tattooed on their  _hip._  Louis hates him so much. (He doesn’t, but. That’s besides the point.)

“There’s a lot of brands who say they’re cruelty free who aren’t,” Zayn says, dragging one hand through his hair, “so you have to be right careful, because you don’t want to be putting money into places that hurt innocent bunnies.”

“You’re a sap,” Louis interrupts, even though there’s something warm in his gut, because he’s actually researched it before.

“Shut up,” Zayn spits back, cheeks a little pink as he relocates his position on the page, “anyway, there’re a lot of brands that aren’t cruelty free, but vegan brands are good and worth putting your money into. Like NYX Cosmetics. MAC’s a bit dodgy on some of their standpoints, which is shitty, because a lot of people rave about their lipstick. There’s others, but. You can use the internet yourself.”

Louis flushes under Zayn’s gaze, because it’s not judging or mean. It’s just calming, and soft, even from thousands of miles away. There’s so much in his face, just hundreds of emotions flickering over his face, open book that he is, showing even through a computer screen. Harry’s great, and he loves him with all of his heart (too much of it, even), but he hasn’t seen Zayn in months. He misses him so much. He just wants him home, really. Where he’s meant to be.

“I miss you,” he voices, “come to London so I can practice on you.”

“You’d ruin me,” Zayn responds, even though that glassy sheen is back in his eyes, “I’m a work of art, you can’t just vandalize me like that.”

Louis huffs, picking up the tiny Hulk figurine and contemplating if he could throw it all the way to Los Angeles. Maybe. He’s pretty strong.

“But,” he begins, “soon, though. So you can talk about how much you love Harry in person, and everything else as well.”

“Like doing your makeup?” There’s probably a giddy edge to his voice. He’s at peace with it. This might mean something, but he’s got people behind him to root for him. The two people he loves best (besides his mum and his siblings, but. Still.)

Zayn wrinkles his nose, but the nod in response is enough of an answer for him.

++

There are stars on his bedroom ceiling, peeling and barely glow in the dark like they used to be, but they make him feel more at home. He’s had them since he and Harry first moved in here, newly famous and young, and he doesn’t know if he’d get rid of them if he had the choice.

“It’s so cold,” he whines, eyes locked on the largest star directly above his head, “are you sure you locked the windows?”

Harry leans around the door frame, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, hair mussed up so it looks like a piece of art, and rolls his eyes.

“Last time I locked the windows,” he walks backwards into the bathroom, and there’s a sound of spit hitting the sink before he continues, “you nearly burned us alive trying to turn on the fireplace.”

Louis frowns, eyes crossing so that the stars double in number.

“That’s not fair. There was something wrong with the fireplace and you know it,” he rolls over onto his stomach, chin perched in his hands.

Harry turns the sink on in the bathroom and lets out a tiny huff, like he doesn’t want to start a fight but knows he’s right. (He is, he definitely is, that whole day was a complete disaster from beginning to end, but Louis can’t let him know he knows that. He can’t destroy his reputation like that.)

“The thing wrong with the fireplace,” he shuffles over to the bed and slumps across Louis’s lap, “was that it’s electric, and you tried to light a log on fire to turn it on.”

Louis flushes, flopping one hand onto Harry’s face so he doesn’t see how embarrassed he still is over that, and lets out a tiny, pitiful mewl. A little like a kitten who climbed up too high, Niall always says. Niall’s a traitor.

“It’s your fault for having such a medieval vibe,” he sticks one finger up Harry’s right nostril and cackles when he doesn’t even flinch, “That I’d assume you’d have a proper log fire.”

Harry breathes out a heavy sigh, puffing against his palm. He’s a lot like a dog, really. Snuffly and loyal and insistent on being clingy; whereas Louis likes to hide his clinginess under a façade of snootiness, Harry just wraps around you and doesn’t let go. Louis likes to pretend it isn’t endearing. (It is.)

“You’re not helping the fact I’m freezing to death,” Louis responds instead, because Harry’s right and he hates that.

“It’d be easier on me,” Harry bites the skin of Louis’s palm, “imagine how much time I’d have not stepping over tripwires all the time.”

“You said you  _liked_ that,” Louis wipes his hand on Harry’s shoulder, “it’s a bonding experience, is what you said.”

Harry nudges at his thigh with the tip of his nose, “Arnie doesn’t treat me like this.”

“That’s because Arnie’s a Jade plant, and doesn’t know how to rake you through the coals like I do.” Louis responds, tucking his fingers into the gaping edge of Harry’s t-shirt. If Harry’s not going to lock them in, he’s just going to steal his warmth instead.

They’re both silent for a moment, besides the traitorous teeth in Louis’s mouth trying to rattle straight out of his skull, before he thinks  _maybe I should tell him_. The thought alone makes him anxious, ready to fly out of the country at the slightest sense of anger or confusion, but. Despite that, he trusts Harry. He trusts him to not be cruel, to just gently tease him and then stand behind him for the rest of time.

“Zayn said he’d let me do his makeup,” he begins, breath rattling in his throat, “if I wanted to.”

Harry stills against him, sensing how big of a deal this is (because it is. It’s a Huge Deal, capital letters and all, even if he doesn’t want it to be. Even if it doesn’t have to be about the whole… Gender thing, it still has the power to change them, and everything around them. It’s still fucking terrifying.)

“And do you want to?” Harry asks, voice soft, delicate, like the way his skin feels under Louis’s fingertips.

“Um,” he squeezes his eyes closed, heart thudding in his chest like it’s trying to escape, “I think I do. I, well. Actually, I know I do.”

“Right,” the response is slow, but the squeeze of Harry’s fingers against Louis’s inner thigh isn’t, “have you thought about what kind of look you’d want on him?”

It feels a little like the cold’s been sucked out of him, like it’s not physically possible to be freezing to death when Harry’s sat here, head in his lap, asking him what he’d make Zayn up as, and actually taking him seriously about it.

He hadn’t expected this, the same way he hadn’t expected Zayn to immediately recommend him cruelty free brands instead of asking psychologically challenging questions. He thinks that, maybe, he’s been underestimating them both. (Or, even worse, underestimating himself. Which is something he should, like, work out at some point, probably.)

“Maybe a soft smoky eye,” he says, without letting himself, “a darker purple in the crease, lighter purple for the whole lid, and a cat eye.”

He wonders if his immediate response means that his subconscious has been thinking about this for a while. The thought makes his stomach roll over with anxiety.

Harry grins, turning so that his chin is perched on Louis’s hip, hands pressing into the soft curves of his waist.

“And for his mouth?” It’s so  _sweet,_ excited and happy, eyes lit up with something akin to inhuman joy. Louis loves him so, so much.

“Probably another purple, matte, and a little bit of,” he flops his hand around uselessly, “glitter, maybe? It’d look so good with his cheekbones.”

“There’s also that highlighter stuff, isn’t there? You could use that, to really bring out his angles.” Harry’s not even doing it to humour him, Christ, he’s just being supportive.

Harry’s words from a few months ago play in his head: “Pick someone who’s supportive!”. He wonders if he knows Louis picked him long before he had a choice to.

“Zayn’s got all the natural angles, he’s an arsehole like that,” he laughs instead, and for the first time in a week, the whole liking makeup thing doesn’t feel like a weight pressing on his chest. It feels like it’s helped him spread out, become something newer, fresher, brighter. Like he could conquer the world.

A thought flashes in his head, vivid and brief, and he tightens his hands into Harry’s hair to ground himself. The soft silk of his curls helps to settle his mind, like an anchor.  _How fitting._

“Thank you,” Louis murmurs instead, “you’re incredible, and I don’t deserve you at all.”

Harry lets out a tiny grunt, like that’s unbelievable, “Starlight, I. You deserve everything. I’d hang the stars for you if you weren’t already the brightest one.”

Louis’s heart stutters in his chest, overwhelmed to the core.  _Starlight._ And, the thing is, it’s not even new. Harry’s called him it so many times, in so many different situations, but this one feels so intimate, so close to home, it burns bright in his chest, like the very namesake. It feels like a beginning instead of a continuation; the way everything with Harry does.

“I want to give you the moon,” Louis whispers, leaning over him and pressing a kiss to the gap between his eyebrows, where the skin’s somehow still warm despite their lack of heating, “I think NASA would understand.”

Harry leans into the touch, and Louis lets him, because he wants it more than anything. He thinks he’s allowed to be selfish for one evening.

++

It’s three in the morning when he sneaks into Harry’s bedroom, panic welling in his throat, duvet wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

He pokes him with his toe, because he’s polite and knows how to wake him up best.

“F’eahg?” Harry hums, eyelashes fluttering, catching on the moonlight filtering in through the windows. For a second, Louis lets himself be overwhelmed with just how gorgeous he is. Then he lets the panic wash it straight back out.

“I did something,” he stutters out, and Harry reaches for him, eyes immediately alert, “and I think it was proper silly, and I want to die immediately. Can you sort out the paperwork after I’m gone?”

Harry wrenches him closer, sleep-laden arms still stronger than they have any right to be, so the tips of their noses are touching. Louis can taste his sleep stale breath in the air. He pretends he doesn’t like it.

“Everything you do is fucking ridiculous,” Harry responds, clearly trying with all of his might to enunciate, “but you’re not dying. And I am  _not_ sorting out the paperwork that entails.”

Louis huffs, like it’s an awful thing, but the panic in his chest is welling up into his throat, like it’s trying to drown him alive. He wishes it would. Maybe he wouldn’t be waiting on the edge of his heels for the call, then.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and then his mum’s going to ground him for dying without telling her, and then Harry’s going to revive him just to kill him again for being such a fucking  _twat._

“I tweeted,” he grits out, hands shaking where they’re pressed against the soft curves of Harry’s shoulders, “about beauty videos.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly, barely perceptible in the moonlight washing over his skin.

“You’re not dying on my watch over a tweet, starfire,” he says, before pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, like it’s the only thing he can do in the situation. Louis can absolutely relate.

“Not even if I pay you?” The jokes are calming down the shakes, but there’s still a siren going off in his head telling him he needs to jet off to fucking Fiji to get away from all of this. From the inevitable backlash in the media. From the hate he’s going to get from people who would call themselves fans. He shouldn’t have fucking tweeted, he knows it.

“Not even if you give me the moon like you promised,” Harry continues, leaning back, eyes flitting to and from Louis’s mouth, like he’s watching for any more words to come out, “or even Mercury, for that matter.”

He lets out a broken sob, the panic welling over like a broken dam, and Harry immediately wraps his arms around the puff of the duvet, face fitting into the gap of his collarbones and pressing soft, warm kisses to the skin.

“I shouldn’t have fucking, God, I shouldn-” He’s broken off by his own sob, breathless and aching in his own chest, like he can’t find enough air in his lungs, like there’s not enough air in the fucking world to satisfy him. He’d really love for the ground to swallow him whole, flay him alive, burn him up like it already feels is happening right now. For the first time in a long time, the only emotions in his head are self loathing and panic.

“You did, and there’s nothing wrong with you,” Harry’s voice is slow, gentle, in time with the soft rub of his knuckles against the bumps of Louis’s spine, “for liking the videos, for tweeting about it, for liking makeup, for wanting to do it. There’s nothing broken about you because of this, or any other reason. You’re not disgusting. This is no different from those sponsored tweets. It’s just more real. Anything that comes after that, we’ll handle together. And we’ll get Niall, Liam and Zayn on it, too. We’d all die for you in a second, wearing eyeliner or not.”

Louis chokes, pressing a harsh breath against the warm column of Harry’s throat, and there’s less panic, but it still feels a little like dying does. (He doesn’t know what dying feels like, but he’d assume this is pretty close to it.)

Harry lets out a tiny cry of his own, like he’s getting emotional just because Louis is. He’s a sap. Louis’s so in love with him.

“It’s going to be a mess,” Louis mutters, and there are tears pooling in his eyes, “it’s going to be such a fucking mess, and it’ll be my own fucking fault.”

Harry presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder, and it feels like it burns right through to his bones. He wouldn’t mind having this forever.

“It can’t be that bad,” Harry whispers, nipping at the jut of his shoulder, “show me it.”

Louis shuffles around, backwards, moving his duvet so that it doesn’t expose too much skin (the heating’s finally kicked in, but the house is still an ice cube, which Louis is pretty sure should be illegal), and passes his phone.

Harry unlocks it swiftly, typing in his own birthday and grinning when he realises Louis still hasn’t bothered to change it from a few months back. (He hadn’t really seen the point. Harry was on his mind all the time, a constant flicker in the back of his brain, it just seemed fitting to keep him as the passcode.)

When he opens up the Twitter app to flick straight to Louis’s account, he angles it away from him so there’s no chance of Louis even glimpsing the responses. It’s vaguely irritating, but beyond that it’s considerate, and deeply, deeply  _Harry_ , to protect him from the inevitable, so he doesn’t even put up a fight. He’s not sure he’d want to look right now anyway.

It takes a minute for the screen to load up, Louis knows, can tell by the glow of reflection in Harry’s mossy green eyes, but when it does, a smile flickers onto his face, like a candle being ignited.

“Starlight, this is so,” Harry glances up at him, mouth twisting like he’s trying to stop himself from grinning but can’t, “brave, Jesus. I’m so proud of you. This is huge, and incredible, and I love you so much.”

Louis’s chest feels like it’s going to splinter apart from the elated breathlessness that’s taking over him, replacing the raw panic of a few minutes before like it had never even been there.

“I just. I couldn’t stop myself from doing it? I don’t know, I just. I did it, and I still feel like I want to escape the country if I can, but.” He stops, tugging the duvet under his chin and letting a shaky smile scratch its way to the surface, one muscle at a time.

Harry stretches one hand to fit between the folds of the duvet, pressing against the soft curve of his stomach, and drags him downwards with him, so that their faces settle a few inches apart on Harry’s (oversized and ridiculous) Simpsons pillow.

“You don’t need to escape the country,” he mumbles, stretching the duvet out so it settles along his legs, instead of bunching up under his ribs, “you  _do_ need to sleep.”

Harry curls up behind him, legs tangling with his, breath puffing against the nape of his neck, and it might be because it’s Harry, or it might be because he’s exhausted to the bone, but for the first time in his life, he does as he’s told.

++

The first reply Louis sees, when he dares check, is Harry’s.

For a second, he thinks that he must be imagining it, seeing what he wants to see, but. It’s still there after he pinches his arm, still there when he refreshes the page, still there because Harry  _wanted_ it to be, to be seen and talked about.

“You didn’t,” Louis says, and his fingers are shaking again, like they have been non-stop since the first time he let all of this become Something, “Harry, you  _didn’t_.”

Harry glances up at him from the breakfast bar, nervous smile twitching around his mouth, like he thinks Louis is pleased about it but still isn’t sure. The part of Louis’s head that wants to kiss him starts screaming, and he stamps it down immediately.

“Um,” Harry flushes, ears going pink, “I did?”

And, fuck, Louis knows that, has the physical evidence on the screen propped on his thighs, but for some reason having Harry audibly voice it is different. It feels different.

“I love you,” he mumbles, and if he pretends his body isn’t trembling then it isn’t, “so much.”

Harry’s face gets brighter, like a light switched on behind his eyes, lines smoothing out in his cheeks, and he’s so beautiful. Louis hopes he knows.

The words on the screen make his chest flutter when he glances at it, and he decides that, for the moment, he’s okay just knowing Harry replied. No one else matters. The world could end in hellfire, and Louis would still be thankful to have had Harry by his side the whole time (and it’s dramatic, but it’s still true.)  


 

++

There’s backlash, of course, the phone rings for two days straight and Louis still flinches even after that, like he’s going to get sued for ever mentioning it. The words “strictly prohibited” bounce around his skull so often it feels a little like they might end up becoming a permanent fixture, but the only thing it does is make him more eager.

The only thing it does is leave him scrolling the replies at three in the morning, alone in his bedroom, duvet tucked up to his chin, silently noting down the recommendations people tweet at him. It’s not a fix, like turning off a light switch. The fear still pools in the bottom of his stomach like liquid lead, but underneath it he knows he deserves better. That he’s allowed to ask for better.

That he has it, in the next room over, warm in his own bed. It’s enough.

++

Louis’s curled over his laptop, feet tapping the floor, because he’s pretty sure if he balls up tight enough he won’t have to talk about this. He won’t have to talk about the video playing on his screen, or the way his stomach feels less torn up in knots when watching it. He won’t have to talk about the fact this feels like home in a way only Harry ever has.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Harry says, and Niall agrees, face pixelated on the screen, “there’s nothing wrong with you, no matter what anyone else says.”

Louis breathes in sharply, mind still full and buzzing with the words of the phone call from earlier, words like  _damage to career_ and  _difficulties_ and  _failure._  His hands have stopped shaking, but his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest, take wing and never turn back. The both of them, Harry and Niall, can say that it’s fine and okay, but that doesn’t stop the fear that he hasn’t stopped feeling since he thought about this. Since he let himself think about this.

It’s a process, and he’ll get there, but for now he just needs to fake it.

“Try me,” he mumbles, letting one earbud hang out around his shoulder as he watches the person on screen blend out a soft taupe colour into their crease, “my greatest talent is ignoring you both.”

Niall lets out a huff that Louis only hears because it’s so  _loud_. (And, maybe, because he was listening for it. But that’s his business.)

“Babe, Louis,” Niall begins, and Louis glances out of the corner of his eye at Harry’s laptop, settled on the coffee table. The Irishman looks a little close to tears, “you’re allowed to like this, you know? And I’m so proud of you, and so is Liam, and Zayn. We all love you, regardless of what this might mean or not mean. You have to know that.”

Louis pauses the video and shuffles closer to Harry, so their thighs touch. He wonders if it burns for Harry the same way it does for him.

“I know that,” Harry lets out a disbelieving squawk that Louis punches him for, “I do know that, it’s just. Scary, a little bit. I’m just a tiny, little bit scared.”

Niall smiles, soft and warm, and Harry rubs circles into his thigh with his thumb, warm pressure that makes him feel too big for his skin and simultaneously small and delicate. He wonders if they’d still love him the same, if they’d both still be here, if he admitted everything. He thinks that, maybe, they would be. Maybe.

“It’s terrifying,” Harry agrees, voice low and grumbly, the way it is when he’s just woken up from a nap, “you’re allowed to be horrified by it, and you’re so brave for even thinking about it. Nothing you say or do is gonna change that, duck, I promise.”

The nickname sits comfortably between his ribs, the way all of Harry’s nicknames do. It’s something about how he cared enough to come up with them, he thinks. (It might be because he’s in love with him, but nobody has to know that. Nobody has to know that he’s been pining for him since the day they met, that every glance he spares for Louis makes him feel like he could float. Nobody has to know that he’s embarrassingly in love with his best mate, except for him.)

“Yeah, I,” he puts the earbud back in, “I know. Thank you.”

He doesn’t miss the way Harry smiles at him, soft and gentle, but he focuses on the video instead. On how pretty it’d look on him, on how easily he could replicate it. If he wanted to.

He thinks he does.

(He knows he does.)

++

After that, it becomes even more of a Thing than it had been.

Seconds after waking up, he’s pressing play on a highlight and contour video, moments after stumbling down the stairs and pressing a kiss to the back of Harry’s head, he’s scrolling through eye shadow tutorials, minutes after climbing out of the shower he’s lying down, towel around his waist, looking for lipstick recommendations.

“I’m fucked,” he breathes, softly, fingers tightening around his bare thighs, “I’m so, so fucked.”

He’s fallen down the rabbit hole, and he doesn’t know if he cares. He thinks he likes it, even, that he can spend hours watching the videos and flicking through the guides stacked on his bedside table, and not get bored. It’s like, with everything else, the spark goes out after a while, and this is neverending. The need for more doesn’t stop with the tenth video of the day, or the fifteenth, or the twentieth. It doesn’t stop, and he keeps falling, and he does nothing to stop it.

Because he doesn’t want to.

He really, really doesn’t want to.

++

Harry’s warm against him, a solid pressure like he’s trying to reassure him just through touch, and it’s working, because it always does. Harry’s an anchor, holding him moored. Louis loves him so, so much.

“Little star,” Harry begins, breaking the silence, his voice gentle, fingers intertwined with Louis’s, “how’d you know you were ace?”

Louis pauses, glancing up from the makeup guide he’s been poring over for the past few hours.

Harry’s never really asked, before, how Louis knew. Researched when Louis came out so he wasn’t accidentally cruel, and did nothing but support him, but he’s never asked like this before, voice slightly shaky and hands trembling a little bit, like he’s anxious. Louis knows the feeling.

“I think,” he says, considering, folding over the page he’s on so he can focus on Harry alone, the way he deserves, “it was when people started talking about how hot people were, and I didn’t understand it. But I didn’t really know the name for it until a couple years ago, and there’s nothing wrong with that, or not having a name for it. It’s still there, name or not.”

Harry nods, soft and gentle, like if he does it quietly enough he doesn’t have to admit it. Louis knows the feeling. A part of his chest aches.

“I just,” Harry tightens his grip, like he needs an anchor, “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt sexual attraction.”

Louis’s chest stutters, like it’s trying to catch up with the situation, because. He’s never had someone like him, really, not in real life and not someone who is this important to him. Not someone he’d give the world to in a heartbeat if he could.

“That’s okay,” Louis responds, tightening his grip right back, because he knows how terrifying this is to admit, “you don’t have to feel it. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Harry bites his lip, tilting his head so that it rests on Louis’s shoulder, and lets out one tiny, soft whimper into his skin, like he’s still unsure. Louis wishes he could fix every part of him that’s worrying, but he knows it’s impossible. There’s nothing to be fixed. The worry fades, eventually, into nothingness and a small, niggling doubt, but it’ll happen on its own. The only thing he can do, really, is hold his hand and press tighter to him and promise that he’s okay.

It’s what he’s best at.

“I’m just. A little scared,” There’s a tremor in Harry’s voice, like even voicing it shakes him to the bone, and Louis knows the feeling.

Louis presses in closer, mouth pressed to the jut of Harry’s jaw, and kisses the soft skin there. The tiny huff of laughter he lets out in response is worth its weight in gold, probably, because he knows how horrifying this can be to admit. The whole thinking you have everything figured out thing being torn back to reveal something else; it’s hell, and there’s nothing he can do.

“I know, pup,” Louis murmurs, and Harry presses his face closer, like he can’t be more than an inch away, “it’s new, and it’s scary, and there’s nothing wrong with you even if it feels like there is. You’re valid and real, and so are your feelings, label or not.”

Harry smiles, soft and shaky, glassy look in his eyes like he’s just barely holding back tears. Louis’s hand clenches around thin air, body responding to it like it wants to fix it and doesn’t know how. Like his body’s automatic response is to make Harry feel better, and Jesus. He’s so, so fucked for this boy.

“I love you,” Harry mumbles, and presses a gentle kiss to the side of Louis’s mouth, warm and soft, and he can feel the way the heat burns under his skin, “thank you so much.”

Louis flutters his eyelashes against the edge of Harry’s cheek, and murmurs it back.

He thinks his chest could compete with the sun, burning hot and bright when Harry presses closer. He thinks he’d tear apart every world that kept Harry from feeling completely whole, over and over. He’d fall apart to fix Harry back up.

 _Or_ , he thinks, fingers tangling with Harry’s,  _maybe we can fall together_.

++

“They’re so easy to look after,” Louis voices aloud, and Liam sighs down the phone, like he’s aware Louis’s trying to change the conversation, “that’s why we bought them.”

“You’re talking about Arnie again?” Liam sounds tired, and Louis would feel guilty for trying to distract him, if not for the fact he knows full well that Liam’s faking it. Louis taught him how, he knows all of his tricks.

“Arnie’s a vital part of our household,” he grins when Liam just lets out a world weary sigh, “and you should respect them.”

Louis fiddles with one of the lower leaves, and smiles to himself. There’s something calming about having Arnie be a permanent place in his life, like a tiny plant version of Harry. Like a tiny version of home.

“You can’t keep changing the subject, Tommo,” Liam replies, gentle. Not as gentle as Harry, but. No one’s as gentle as Harry. “We know, and it’s fine, and we all love you.”

Louis rubs a thumb over a smaller leaf and breathes hard through his nose. He knows this, everything that Liam’s saying, that changing the subject constantly isn’t going to work for long.

“I’m working stuff out,” he responds, and there’s a part of him that wants to tell Liam, tell him about the three hours last night he’d spent researching different genders and pronouns. Thinks about telling him he might have found a label, that it’s shaky and terrifying, but it’s there. Thinks about actually voicing aloud something that’s been swirling around his skull for five years.

“I’m just not sure yet,” he finishes, and Liam lets out a confirming hum from the other side of the line.

It can wait.

++

 

The box sits at his feet, and there’s a moment where he’s tempted to tuck it away somewhere and never mention it again. It lasts all of a second, before he’s taking out the glass bottle of foundation and biting his lip.

He’d looked a couple days ago, recommendation videos and reviews, and bought it all on a whim. Three am is less scary than mid-day, like the night numbs it down until the only thing left is want, and. For the second time, he’s not denying it.

There’s more in the box, he knows, the foundation is only the first thing, knows that under that there’s eyeliner and mascara, and two different primers. Knows there’s more, but doesn’t want to see yet. One step at a time is terrifying enough, for now.

He pops the lid off and squirts some onto the back of his hand, and it sits there for a couple seconds, small blob of nothing that makes his heart race like a hummingbird. It matches, which is more than he hoped, and there’s tears in the back of his eyes he doesn’t want to let fall. They probably will, but he likes to prolong it.

Likes to act like this won’t mean anything, when it’s the only thing that’s felt right in months.

“It matches,” he calls, and Harry slowly turns to him from where he’s perched on the counter, small smile quirked at his mouth, “like, really well.”

“I’m glad,” Harry responds, and there’s a look in his eyes like he’s debating whether to ask a question or not, “d’you want me with you?”

Louis blinks, and glances up from his hand.

“I always want you with me,” he responds, and there’s a tiny crack in his voice, but Harry doesn’t bring it up, just walks closer and settles down at his feet, chin resting against his knee.

“I’ve got to, um,” Louis fumbles a little, and the foundation smears onto the back of Harry’s neck, “prime my face first, probably. There’s some in the box.”

Harry leans over and peels back a couple of layers of cardboard to get to it, before he hands it over. He doesn’t mention the foundation.

Louis doesn’t deserve him.

“D’you need a mirror?” Harry asks, and he’s kind, he’s so kind, and it burns a little behind Louis’s ribcage, like a fire that’s never fully extinguished. Harry’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, outside of the band, and maybe even with it. He’s the best person he knows, and. Louis’s so, so in love with him.

“There’s one in the eyeshadow palette, I think.” He knows, actually, had checked, but.

Harry passes that up, and there’s a jump in Louis’s stomach like it’s trying to crawl right out of him. This whole thing is stressful, but. He wouldn’t change it for the world, knows that it’s not bad and wrong, that no matter what happens it’s here, and he tried. He owes himself that much, owes everyone that much.

He flips it open, and breathes a little bit deeper when he realises he’s gone pale. He hands it back, and Harry puts it in his lap.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles, unscrewing the primer lid.

“I wouldn’t ever want to,” Harry murmurs back, thumb and forefinger wrapping around Louis’s ankle.

He wipes off the foundation onto a spare bit of cardboard, before he dips his fingers into the primer. Brings it up to his face. Starts brushing it underneath his eyes and on his cheeks. His hands won’t stop shaking. He keeps going.

Harry doesn’t leave, just starts talking, slow and rumbly, about everything. About how proud he is of Louis, about how important this is, about how brave he is. The words don’t sink in, but they help the tremble in his hands, and that’s all he really needs. He’s tired of being terrified.

By the time he’s finished priming his face, the shake in his hands has reduced to a slight tremor. He’s pretty sure he’s got a twitch in his mouth, but. That’s okay. It’s fine.

“D’you need me to wet that?” Harry points to the Beauty Blender nestled in the box, and Louis feels something warm burn in his chest.

It’s one thing, really, for Harry to be supportive and loving, to be kind and compassionate regardless of anything else. It’s another to know he must have researched for himself, looked online so he could help Louis along, so he could ease the panic that’s been choking him for the past few weeks.

“Um,” he begins, and Harry just rubs over the jut of Louis’s ankle bone, “yeah, please.”

Harry leans up, and presses the softest kiss possible to the extreme edge of Louis’s mouth, warm breath crossing the particles of air between them. Louis wants him closer, wants to pull him in and hold him close and not let him leave, arch towards him like a strung bow, wants to give everything over to him that he has.

He just lets out a soft whimper instead, hopes that construes everything that’s running through his head.

Harry stands, thumb pressing lightly to his jaw as a small  _I get it_ signal.

Louis returns his gaze to the foundation bottle, and the small amount on the cardboard, and dips one finger into it.

The first press, on the high point of his cheekbone, doesn’t burn him through. Doesn’t turn his insides into smoke and ashes. Doesn’t end everything he has, or make Harry look at him like he’s doing something wrong.

Harry settles back at his feet, newly dampened Beauty Blender in hand, waiting for Louis to be ready.

He wonders how many times Harry would do this. If he’d do it to the ends of the earth, sat at Louis’s feet just to ground him, anchor to his rope forever and always. Or if the fear gets tiring after a while, if he couldn’t be bothered. If he’d leave, like everyone else would.

“You know I wouldn’t,” Harry responds, lips pressed against a hole in Louis’s jeans, and Louis hadn’t even spoken aloud, but Harry always knows, “you know I love you with everything I have, starshine.”

Louis’s chest flutters, and he swipes a few more streaks of foundation onto his face, his chin and jaw and forehead and nose, ignores the pounding in his head telling him there’s the possibility Harry’s lying.

Because it’s nothing but a fairytale, really, lies and worries made by too many nights remembering the way other people had walked out on him, or stopped answering his calls. But Harry’s not other people, has never been other people, has always meant more to him than anyone else he’s ever known. Because he’s not in love with anyone else.

Harry passes him the sponge, and Louis bites his lip between his teeth so hard it draws a little blood.

He starts pressing it in, patting it in like all of the demo videos had told him, blending it together until it actually starts looking like something.

“You’re glowing,” Harry tells him, “never stopped.”

“It’s because it’s a satin finish,” Louis responds, and the joke doesn’t fall flat, for once, voice staying steady and calm; a juxtaposition to the parts inside of him still telling him that this isn’t okay.

Harry’s cheeks press into a dimpled grin, eyes wrinkling up with the force of it.

Louis glances into the mirror after Harry passes it up to him, and feels his chest constrict a little bit.

His features are still his, they’re just. More flawless. Like someone’s airbrushed him in real life. It’s. It’s a lot, really, and Harry wraps an arm around Louis’s knees, like he knows what he’s thinking. Like he’s always known, and he’s never got tired of hearing it.

“It suits you,” Harry promises, and the sincerity in his voice makes something slip in Louis’s stomach, “you did a really good job at it.”

Louis grins, teeth biting over his lip. It still tastes a little like blood, which takes away from the whole Trying to Be Calm thing, but. He’s never been a calm person, really.

“Thanks, I,” he reaches down and brushes his index finger against the anchor on Harry’s wrist, “I want to do more.”

Harry doesn’t glance away from him as he grabs the last things in the box and passes it to him.

Louis thinks to the videos he’s watched, all of the eye tutorials, tries to remember the order that people usually do it. He’s, like, at least ninety percent sure they do the eyeliner last.

Harry thumbs at the ripped part of his jeans, chin resting against his upper calf, a solid presence that won’t ever leave him be. A solid presence that, he knows, won’t ever want him to. No matter what he keeps thinking.

“You’re still the same Louis, eyeliner or not,” Harry insists, and his voice is still gentle, when with anyone else it’d be forceful, “foundation and a full face of makeup or not. It doesn’t change anything about us.”

“What about everyone else?” He asks, and he’d thought he’d gotten over the chest ache, but. The words are still cut off, edgy, like if he says them splintered off enough it doesn’t spear him between the ribs. Admitting it’s the hardest part, but. He’s admitted a lot of things. This is just one more.

Harry moves his hands down his legs, and presses his thumbs into the dips of Louis’s ankles, “I’ll still be rooting for you, even if no one else is.”

There’s something reassuring about it, Louis thinks, that he’s not just lying or pretending nothing could go wrong. There’s something reassuring about knowing that, no matter what, Harry’s on his side and he loves him.

“Okay,” he allows, “even though people say that people with hooded eyes can’t pull off cat eyes?”

Harry’s mouth twitches again, a reminder of a previous smile.

“Even though those people are dirty liars, yeah,” Harry presses a soft, warm kiss to the exposed skin of Louis’s thigh, and he lets out a tiny sigh, “even though those people would try and tear you inside out. I’ll be here. Infinity and beyond.”

That startles a laugh out of him, shakes off some of the last nerves clinging on.

“You can’t just quote Buzz Lightyear and act like you’re Socrates,” he twists his mouth up, “Hocrates.”

Harry lets out a wounded whine, like the joke is unimaginably bad. As if Louis hasn’t had to sit through hours of him thinking he’s the funniest person on earth because he knows a couple thousand puns. (As if he wouldn’t sit through a hundred more just to see the way it made his eyes light up).

“The liner,” Harry cuts across, “we were talking about that.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and it’s like something opens up in his chest, like a Pandora’s Box of emotions he’s not supposed to feel that are suddenly escaping. He doesn’t really know what he is without the fear.

“You put it on after the eyeshadow,” Louis says, "so I'll need another mirror.”

Harry stands, doesn't even say anything before he disappears into the kitchen and returns with a mirror between his too-big hands.

Louis arranges the palette in his lap and looks over the colours with his lip bitten between his teeth.

Harry tells him he’d look good with purple, when Louis asks, and he picks out the colours obediently, starts dabbing it onto a fluffier brush.

He blends the darker shade into his crease, like he’s seen over a thousand times by now, feels a little like magic when it looks like something he’d want to see tutorials on. Wonders if anyone else would.

By the time he’s putting the finishing touches on his eyeshadow, darker in his crease and outer v, a softer lilac over the rest of his lid, there’s nothing but a loose contentedness in his chest, and Harry’s sweet compliments at his feet. He thinks it’s exactly where he wants to be, forever and always.

"Eyeliner now?" Harry asks, and doesn't let him respond before pressing the container into his hands.

Louis takes it from him before he opens the liner pot and looks inside of it. It’s thick and black, like he expected, and he dips the edge of the brush in before bringing it up to his eyes.

Harry holds up the mirror for him so he can see, and he carefully makes a thin line of dots from the centre of his eye to the outer edge. It’s the easiest method he’s come across, and. Easy’s what he needs right now.

When he’s finished lining up the dots on both eyes, he starts making a thin line on his right eye. It’s cold, makes him want to recoil a little bit because of it, but. He doesn’t. He’s just glad his hand’s stopped shaking, for the most part, because he’s not sure how he’d manage this without sending the gel across the room, splattering up the walls.

Harry’s quiet the whole time, just watches as he starts joining up the dots and flicking it up at an angle to the tail of his eyebrow, like he can’t look away.

Louis’s always liked an audience, but when it’s Harry, it’s different. It feels like home, warm and soft like nothing else, like as long as Harry’s eyes stayed on him nothing else would matter. Like he could crush whole civilizations in the palm of his hand as long as Harry was stood next to him.

Once he’s finished with that eye, he goes about the motions with the other, lip bitten between his teeth. It’s tougher, because he’s right handed, but. It’s not awful, for a first attempt (or, even, an eighth, actually.)

He hadn’t expected it to look good, had expected it to be wonky and wrong, but it’s not. It’s not entirely consistent, but it’s not bad, by any means. He feels tears burn behind his eyes, and has to stiffen every muscle in his face to stop them from falling.

“You’re so gorgeous, little star,” Harry presses a kiss to Louis’s other hand, “I’m so proud of you.”

Louis lets out a soft giggle, like a hysterical burst that he can’t hold back, but Harry grins with it, like he’s missed the sound.

They sit there for a couple minutes, until Louis feels like it’s dry, Harry mumbling about how brave he is, about how important he is, about how he hasn’t ever loved anyone more the whole time.

  
  
“You wanna try blush, duckling?” Harry asks, container in his hand.

Louis takes it from him, grin not leaving his face as he pushes a bigger brush through it, and then takes it up to his cheek. Harry holds up the mirror again, so he can see whether it’s too intense, and Louis thinks  _I love you so much_ , thinks  _no one else would stick with me,_ thinks  _you’re the most important thing in my life._

He swirls it over the apple of his cheek, soft and gentle so it doesn’t look too overpowering, and when he’s finished, it feels like there’s light in his veins.

He looks down at Harry, properly, takes in the way his eyes are damp and the way his jaw’s shaking, like he’s proud and excited and so happy he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s okay?” He asks, tentative.

“You’re stunning, starlight,” Harry says, joining their hands together, raising Louis’s fingers to his mouth, “you’re my favourite work of art.”

Louis flushes pink, and tugs him closer so he can hide over his shoulder.

“Love you.”

 

[(x)](http://lunazain.tumblr.com/)

++

It’s a week later when Harry starts acting edgy, hiding something behind his back. Louis normally wouldn’t care, but he’s been dancing in front of him for the last half hour, just out of reach so that Louis couldn’t reach what was curled between his fingers behind his back.

It’s when he’s turning around, almost showing it off, that Louis takes his opportunity.

He springs at him, catches onto his sides just as Harry quickly turns, and sends them plummeting to the floor, like an arsehole.

“Show me,” Louis glares, nose touching Harry’s, legs clamped around his waist, “you’re trying to be all smug, and I’m not here for it, so  _show me_.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry responds, voice airy and light, the way it always gets when he’s blatantly lying. As if Louis hadn’t just been watching him darting just out of his reach. Louis truly hates him.

Louis’s so close to him that his eyes are starting to cross, and his chest’s heaving even though he hasn’t been moving that rapidly. There’s probably something to say about how in shape tour keeps him. (Not that he ever listens to fitness regimes when they’re actually travelling, much prefers napping instead, but. The thought still counts.)

“What is it?” Louis presses again, hand twitching against Harry’s shoulder. It’s really soft. Louis knows, from personal experience, that it’s really nice to nap on.

Harry looks him in the eye, and sighs, “Fine. It was going to be a surprise, but fine.”

Louis blinks, gentle, because for some reason he hadn’t expected that. Normally Harry’s pushy about this kind of thing, refuses to relent unless Louis’s got his stuff piled up next to an industrial shredder.

“Can you, like,” Harry wriggles around, “shove off for a second, it’s digging into my back.”

Louis rolls off of him, but leans his chin on his shoulder anyway. He never claimed to be helpful.

Harry rolls his eyes at him, before he reaches under him to scrabble for the thing he’s been hiding. It takes a minute, eyes crossed in concentration, and Louis’s this close to teasing him about it (even if he is endeared), when he pulls it out.

“It’s lipstick,” Louis says, blinking at the thin tube.

It’s pretty, is what he’d meant to say, but they’re pretty much the same, he thinks.

The colour’s gorgeous, because of course it is, and more than anything it looks like it’d actually look good on him. The idea of Harry looking around for things that would look good on him  _specifically_  makes his chest tighten, just a little bit.

“It’s Beeper, by Colourpop,” Harry passes it to him, arm bent out awkwardly because Louis’s still resting on his shoulder, “Gemma told me about them ages ago, said they’re well made, and. I saw the colour and thought of you.”

He grins, suddenly, “There was also one called Bad Habit, but I figured you’d just like to start off with this.”

Louis nibbles at the edge of his thumb as he looks at the tube, pink but soft and gentle. Thinks about how well it’d look with the eye look he’s sporting now, the one that he’d sat and done in his en suite with Harry showering next to him. It’s not as terrifying any more, like the first try had broken the fear of not being good enough.

After a week of putting on makeup, trying on all the different looks he can in a short space of time, this is the thing he’s been needing most. And Harry’d gotten it for him, just because his sister had mentioned it a while ago.

“Thank you,” he says, before slowly shaking it, being careful to not accidentally smack Harry in the jaw in the process, “it’s really pretty.”

“Would look even prettier on, you know.” Harry responds, reaching one arm down to grab at Louis’s thigh, draping it over his waist.

Louis shuffles so he’s back on top of him, unscrewing the cap against Harry’s ear. If he gets lipstick on him, Harry doesn’t even mention it.

He brings the applicator up to his mouth and presses his lips into a shape that makes it easier to apply it, and slowly swipes around the edges. Harry smiles up at him, thumb brushing over the curve of his thigh, like he’s trying to soothe himself more than Louis.

He leans back, slightly, pressing his lips together so there aren’t any patches, and they sit in silence as they wait for it to dry.

Harry’s face looks so soft, gentle from this angle, like he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else. Like this is exactly where he’d always want to be, pressed against their cool living room floor with Louis slumped across his chest, fluttering his eyelashes at him to show off the mascara.

Louis doesn’t think he’d choose anywhere else, either.

It dries matte, and Harry’s mouth turns into a grin when he presses his thumb against it, and it doesn’t rub off.

Louis’s eyes flick down to his mouth, taking in the way that he can feel the soft little waves of breath against his face, the way he keeps on wanting more, wants to draw closer and press a kiss to his mouth. Wants to burn himself there, so everybody after him knows he got there first.

“They said it’s kiss proof,” Harry mumbles, and if Louis wasn’t pressed against him from toe to chin, he might have thought he misheard, “we could always test it.”

And, the thing is, they don’t really ever do mouth kissing. Neck kissing, hand kissing, cheek kissing, yes, because it’s a part of who they are. This integral closeness that’s made Louis feel like he’s on fire for years, now, like he constantly needs to know how Harry feels about him. Mouth kissing has always meant more, the one thing they’ve avoided over the years, to not smudge the lines, but Louis  _wants_ , warm and deep and forever, their own brand of infinity.

“Your eyeliner’s fucked,” Harry says, gentle, and Louis knows that, had sworn spectacularly when he realised he’d managed to smudge it.

Harry leans in, then, tilts his head up, mouth barely pressing Louis’s, and something tumbles anxiously in his chest, like a warning. Like an alarm going off, telling him it’s a bad idea.

He doesn’t listen.

He presses back, mouth opening against his, and something licks flames up the side of his ribs, like his heart’s suddenly burst, chanting out reasons this is a bad idea, at the same time that he follows Harry to the floor, muffles a laugh when it lets out a soft  _clunk_.

It’s so  _good,_ warm and gentle, and not sexual because nothing about them is. Because it never would be, wouldn’t need to be, for it to be real and there. No matter what, the kiss doesn’t have to mean anything besides the fact Louis’s in love with him and couldn’t hold back. Doesn’t have to mean anything besides the fact he can’t hold it in.

Harry pulls back, first, takes in a shuddering breath and lets out a tiny giggle, like he can’t believe it.

“It didn’t survive the kiss test,” he says, voice slightly choked, poking at a part of his chin that the lipstick had wiped off onto.

Louis leans back, eyes rolling to face the wall, and mumbles, “it didn’t survive  _you_.”

++

The thing about talking to his mum, Louis thinks, is that she takes as little shit as he does. It’s where he got it from. It’s one of the reasons they’re so close; they’re so similar, and they get each other in a way no one else really does.

The bad part of that, though, is that she always knows something’s wrong without Louis even saying anything.

“It’s not a big deal,” he tries, climbing out of the car, phone pressed to his ear, “I told you, and it’s not.”

Jay lets out a sound that makes Louis’s hair stand on end.

“If you haven’t told me, it’s a big deal,” she responds, and there’s a sound of glass smashing in the background. She doesn’t even mention it, too used to the way that all the little ones break things to get angry. Fizzy’ll probably clean it up as is.

That doesn’t mean Louis’s not going to cling onto it with everything he has, though.

“Look, Mum, I should let you go, the kids clearly can’t be-”

“Louis William Tomlinson,” Jay starts, voice deadpan, and Louis feels his face whiten in response. She never uses his full name. He’s going to die. “If I got off the phone to you every time the babies did anything, we’d have one phone call a year. Don’t you dare try and use that excuse on me.”

“Right,” he croaks, nodding at his driver to tell them they can leave, “sorry.”

She softens, marginally, at that, because as tough as she is, she’s also the loveliest person he knows. And that’s including Niall and Harry.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” she says, and pauses. “You do know you can tell me, right? I saw that tweet, and I know that it must’ve been hell from your… ‘management’ after, but you can tell me, and I won’t think any less of you.”

Louis grins at the audible air quotes around the word ‘management’. She’s never been a big fan of them, from the day they were signed and nobody contacted her to look it over, to the day he talked about wanting to come out as ace and they brushed it off. He’s pretty sure she’s just biding her time, at this point, waiting for the moment she can sue them all and tear them apart in the public eye.

He really doesn’t deserve her.

“It’s just,” he starts walking towards the shop he’s aiming for, “makeup, really, that’s all.”

It’s easier to tell her, he thinks, than it was anyone else.

He’d been shaking, when he told Liam, waiting for the moment he’d ask why he’d ever want that, close to hanging up just so he didn’t have to deal with the consequences. He’d felt his stomach rolling, anxiety building in his throat so it was almost choking him.

It’s different with her because she’s his mum, and he knows that she’d never leave him to be alone. That she hasn’t for all of the years he’s been alive.

“What type?” she asks, and her voice is void of judgment, the way he’d known it would be.

“All types, I think,” he responds, ducking in through the door.

It smells of chemical cleaner in here, like he’d expected it to, and something buzzes up his spine when he realises anyone could see him do this.

“Foundation, and eyeshadow palettes, lipstick, the whole lot,” he makes a beeline for the makeup section, keeps his head down, even though he’s considerably shorter than the height of the shelves.

“That sounds incredible,” she says, “is that what the tweet was leading up to?”

He pauses in front of a display of No7 products, eyes flicking up and down the eyeshadow palettes. There are a lot of them, dark and nude and purple shades, all for the taking. He could buy all of them, and it wouldn’t particularly matter. Wouldn’t even put a dent in his bank account, or his wallet. He could grab them all, and it wouldn’t make the world explode under his feet.

“I think so,” he responds, picking up a  _Stay Perfect_ palette and wondering if he should buy it. “I think I want to make tutorials.”

He blinks, startled. He’s not really sure where that had come from. He’s never thought about it before, not in depth, just passing idealisations of  _I could do it just as well_ and  _it’d be nice to be something like that_ , but. He’s never voiced it, not even to Harry, the person who’s been nothing but supportive the whole time he’s been considering all of this.

“Lou, that’s,” his mum’s voice is choked, like she’s holding back tears, “that’s so brave, darling.”

If they’d talked about this a while ago, his hands would have started shaking. He would have tried to avoid the subject, and ignore it, but. He’s tired of running from this.

“Yeah, I,” he responds, flicking the palette open and bringing it closer to his face, so he can look at it properly. “I want to be something more than what I am, I think.”

She lets out a sniffle, and Louis feels his heart pull. It’s been awhile since he travelled up to her, and he needs to, sooner rather than later, because he misses her so much.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbles, “you’ll make me cry.”

She laughs, “I’m an old woman, now, love, don’t worry about me.”

He wrinkles his nose, grabs a couple mascara tubes and takes a few steps to the NYX stand of lipsticks. It’s so odd, being able to physically look at them, instead of through a partially cracked computer screen. It’s different, and he thinks he prefers it. Could stand here forever, just swatching the different colours and trying them out for himself.

“Is that all, though?” She voices, voice softer, and now’s the moment he should tell her about kissing Harry. She’d be nothing but supportive and kind about it, if not slightly wary.

“Yeah, it is, I promise,” he says instead. “I need to go, now, but I’ll call you back soon, okay? I love you.”

She tells him she loves him too, and he only feels slightly guilty as he ends the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

He diverts his attention back to the stand, and frowns. He doesn’t know if he can make the decision alone.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, takes a picture, and shoots off a quick message:

 **from: louis  
to: h** **⚓**

**help me,??? which colour’s best ?**

Harry responds barely twenty seconds later, and Louis’s mouth twitches into a smile as he reads it.

 **from: h** **⚓** **  
to: louis**

**highvoltage, butter, that primer, the matte one (u know which one), get them in all shades you’d look good**

He collects everything Harry had told him, in the shades he likes best (because as much as he loves it, he’s not buying all of them. He’s an adult and has Self Restraint, or something.)

He makes his way to the counter, arms cradling all of the lipstick, eyeshadow palette clamped between his teeth, and it’s probably unsanitary, but. He’s buying them anyway, so.

The shop clerk’s eyes go wide when they realise who they’re looking at, hand freezing on the till, and Louis’s heart freezes in his chest.

“You’re, um,” they let out a slightly shocked giggle, “Louis Tomlinson.”

He carefully deposits all of the lipsticks onto the counter, jerking one thigh up so they don’t roll off, and nods in response. He’s mostly hoping they’re not going to laugh at him.

“Those’d look pretty on you, I think,” they say, and their smile’s shaky, but it makes something warm trickle into his chest, like liquid treacle, “all of it. It’s good quality, too, so.”

“Thank you,” and he sounds more eager than he means to.

It shouldn’t feel like a fork in the road, as he slots his card into the machine, like another start, but it does all the same. He doesn’t know if there’d be a way it wouldn’t feel like that, if going outside to buy makeup for the first ever time would ever feel anything except terrifying and exciting, all rolled into one.

“Um, sorry, but,” they bite their lip, like they’re uncertain, “is it alright to ask you for an autograph, or something? It’s fine if you’re not comfortable with that, but.”

“Yeah, of course, love,” he responds, vaguely amazed that they even bothered asking, as if making people who love him happy isn’t the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.

“D’you want a hug?” He asks, and they blink, before a grin slides onto their face, and they shuffle out from behind the counter, nervousness like a mask on their face.

He wraps his arms around their shoulders, and they laugh a little bit into his ear, tell him about how they’d made him feel more comfortable about their gender as he pulls away, and for a moment, he wonders about telling them.

He doesn’t, obviously, takes a picture with them and stuffs his spoils into a bag, writes a little note onto a spare bit of receipt paper about how they’re valid, but it stays with him.

It stays with him, as he walks out of the door, as he waits for the car to pull back up. Stays with him like a warmth that doesn’t die down, hot and aching, this pressure that builds up in his throat. It doesn’t choke him, or hurt him.

For the first time, it feels like he’s not wrong. It’s a feeling he wants to stay.

++

Louis’s got his legs tucked under him, Harry’s head pressed against the wall, just barely pressing the tip of the eyeliner pencil to his waterline, when Harry opens his mouth and closes it.

Louis knows him well enough by now to know that he’s nervous; he can see the way his shoulder twitches up with every stuttering breath, and he puts effort into making sure his face softens. Scaring Harry is a little like scaring a puppy.

“I’m pretty sure I’m panromantic,” he says, and his voice is shaky, like Louis’s had been when he’d told Harry about the whole makeup thing, “because, like. It doesn’t particularly matter what gender people are, I can still develop a romantic attraction to them. Like, obviously I’d respect their gender, but. It doesn’t come into account when I feel romantic attraction to people.”

Louis nods, soft, smudges the eyeliner out a little bit so it looks smokier. It looks pretty on him, contrasts with the way his green eyes glint like there’s a diamond shining behind the iris.

“But, like, you know. I don’t want to have sex with anyone, I don’t think. Only if there was a strong bond there.” Harry’s mouth is shaking around the words, and Louis presses closer, thumb stroking at the space next to his eyebrow.

“Demisexual, yeah?” He voices, and Harry bites his lip, before nodding once, twice. He’s so brave. Louis loves him so, so much.

“But I just,” there’s a rattle in his throat, and Louis’s reminded bizarrely of the dementors from Harry Potter, “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t have to know every facet of your identity to be real and valid,” he responds, tilting his head to check whether the eyeliner was even. It’s close enough.

“So why do you think that  _you_ do?” Harry asks, and it’d sound like the beginning of a fight, if it weren’t for the genuine concern in his voice. Something squeezes in Louis’s chest, so he just turns to the side to grab a tube of mascara, ignoring the tremor in his fingers.

“That’s different,” he says, before making a small ‘O’ with his mouth, to demonstrate what Harry should do, “I don’t matter like you do.”

Harry’s hand closes around his wrist, even as he keeps his head still to make sure he doesn’t mess up the makeup, and mumbles, “you matter to  _me_.”

Louis smiles with one half of his mouth, just presses the mascara wand to the root of Harry’s eyelashes, before wiggling up, slow and gentle.

“I’ve got a couple labels I’ve been thinking about,” he admits, and something loosens deep within him, the part of him that had still been clinging onto the hope that this didn’t have to mean anything.

Because it does, in the end, of course it does, means as much to him as the person sat in front of him. Pretending won’t do anyone any good, really.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to say, yet, but. They’re there, regardless, yeah? And that’s okay, for now.”

Harry nods, thumb rubbing over the jut of his wrist, and stays there even as Louis positions himself next to him and they take a picture.

Louis’s pretty sure you can see the adoration in his eyes in the pixellated image, but.

He sets it as his lock screen anyway.

++

Louis’s perched on the kitchen counter, pretending to help unload the groceries, when the need to tell Harry everything suddenly burns bright in his chest.

He doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s the way Harry’s back curves as he stuffs cereal boxes into Louis’s cupboard, or the way the small amount of lipstick he’s wearing (put on expertly by Louis’s own hand) glints in the overhead lights, but the need is there nonetheless.

It doesn’t matter, in the end, why it’s there, because the real reason is always that it’s Harry. It’s always been Harry.

“Boyflux,” he says aloud, and Harry turns to look at him, blinking gently, “the gender, it’s. Boyflux. So, sometimes I’m… more boy, and then other days I’m… not a boy. If that makes sense? It’s more like the intensity changes, but.”

He’s rambling, he knows, hand going to cover up his mouth so that Harry doesn’t have to watch him have a complete breakdown in the middle of their kitchen. It’s not a big deal, and yet it feels like the end of the whole fucking world.

“So it’s like,” Harry shuffles closer, “a more specific form of genderflux, right?”

Louis blinks, before he covers it up with a shaky smirk, “been doing your homework, pup?”

“Shuddup,” Harry groans, like he’s embarrassed, but there’s a pleased side of it, like knowing it makes him feel happier. Like if he could help in any way possible, he’d research every hour of the day and night.

“D’you want me to use other pronouns for you?” He asks, next, and Louis pauses, leg frozen in mid swing.

He’s come across a lot of pronouns, is the thing, lists of them and different combinations of sets, and they’re all incredible, but. None of them feel like they fit, at least not yet.

“I don’t think,” he pauses, and Harry finally stands between his open legs, hand coming to twine between Louis’s trembling fingers, “not yet. Maybe in the future, but. For now, I’m fine with he and him. I’ll tell you if it changes.”

Harry smiles, presses a soft kiss to their joined hands, “Of course, starlight.”

“You’re incredible, you know that, right?” he asks, just to make sure. He can’t cope with the idea of him thinking Louis doesn’t love him, inside and out. The idea that Harry might not know how much he means to him makes his chest feel cold.

“Says you, little star,” Harry responds back, voice warm, “made of bravery and loyalty and love. Burn so bright you blind me.”

Louis flushes, glad that Harry can’t see it through the layer of foundation and blush on his face. He always holds it against him, the arsehole.

Louis leans his chin against Harry’s hair, presses his knuckles against the nape of his neck, remembers how good the kiss was. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since, the way he’d leaned in close and the way he’d grinned into it, like he’d wanted it just as much as Louis had. He wonders if he’d let it happen again. If it had to be a one off, or if it could be another part of them.

“H,” he starts, because. He might as well get this out of the way as well, Jesus, “that kiss, like, I was just. Wondering.”

Harry pauses from where he’d been doodling patterns into Louis’s throat with his fingertips.

“We can forget about it, if you need to,” Harry says, and Louis blinks, “like, if it made you uncomfortable or anything.”

He lets out a tiny hum of confusion that barely makes it past his lipstick covered mouth. He can’t believe he’d think that, really, that Harry could ever think Louis would give up anything that involved him closer. As if he hasn’t wanted Harry closer since the day he met him, drawing him in like a special kind of gravity.

“I was, actually,” he pauses, rubbing a knuckle against the tip of Harry’s ear, “wondering if we could do it again, or something. I liked it.”

Harry pulls back, and there’s a flash of something over his face that’s there too fast for him to tell what exactly it is, even though he’s been reading him like a book for years.

“Oh,” he breathes, a little unsteady, like he’s shocked, “um. Yeah. Of course.”

Louis nods, gentle, and then pushes him back.

“Okay, nice,” he holds back the grin itching under the surface, “go put the rest of the groceries away, then.”

++

It’s, sort of, a thing from that point on.

Harry presses a soft kiss to Louis’s mouth the second he stumbles into the living room to water Arnie, Louis kisses him after he steps out of the shower, Harry tells him goodnight with a bite to the mouth. They kiss for no reason, at all times, just to tell each other they love each other, a comforting touch, and they don’t properly talk about it.

They don’t talk about it through the kisses as they marathon Doctor Who, or through the kisses when they’re curled up in bed together, or when Harry’s trying to clean Louis’s makeup off his face through presses of his mouth.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, and they’re both okay with it, regardless. It’s new, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad, and. They both enjoy it. A lot, really. A lot a lot, actually. (It’s, maybe, the best part about Louis’s day, besides putting on makeup, but no one has to know that.)

Until, of course, Liam comes into the equation.

Louis’s just finishing applying highlighter to the tops of his cheekbones when he realises the voice downstairs doesn’t belong to Harry. That he’s only heard Harry speak a couple times this morning, and. Well, that’s not his boy.

He drops the pot onto the ground, still open, and clambers to his feet, rubbing off the excess powder onto his trousers. They need a wash, anyway.

He stumbles down the stairs, feet making louder sounds than they usually would, too nervous to bother to be gentler. The stairs are sturdy. They can handle a newly-woken person.

Harry’s lounging on the sofa, and when Louis glances around for the other voice, he finds Liam’s eyes.

“Oh,” he breathes, “wasn’t expecting you, sorry.”

Liam looks good, healthier than on tour, like he’s gotten rest. There’s still this look in his eye, like maybe he wants to ask a few questions, but. He doesn’t voice them, not yet.

Liam grins, “It was meant to be a surprise anyway, don’t worry, bro.”

Something about the word makes Louis’s gut twist, like he’s just been punched. It’s just. He doesn’t feel like a boy today, or anything similar to it. And he knows, theoretically, that it’s a gender neutral term, that Liam meant no harm by it in any way, that they’ve always called each other it. But his head doesn’t seem to know that, doesn’t seem to let him think that, and. It’s a bit much for someone who woke up barely an hour ago.

Harry seems to notice before Liam does, arches his eyebrow up as if to ask if he’s okay. He minutely shakes his head, before walking over to hug Liam around the shoulders. He might feel a little awful, but it’s not Liam’s fault, not really. Even if it still aches a little in his chest.

“Cool, yeah, I,” he sighs, going to rub at his eyebrow before he realises that he’s already done them, “sorry, I’m just a bit. All over the place.”

Liam nods, eyebrows pulling together like they always do when he gets a little worried.

“You look gorgeous, anyway,” Liam says, and.

That’s a lot better, actually. It feels a lot better than being called handsome, or anything else similar to it. It’s more neutral, and it helps to quell the knot of worry in his stomach.

“Thanks,” he responds, “I know.”

Harry laughs, soft and barely there, and Louis steps backwards towards the sofa before flopping onto him, and instinctively pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. It’s like an automatic response, by now, a way to say hello, and he forgets that Liam doesn’t know about it.

“Um,” Louis jerks his head back to look at Liam, where he seems to have stumbled backwards a bit in shock, “is this, like-” he waves his hands around manically “-a new thing? Are you dating?”

Harry pauses, and Louis feels the way his heart speeds up, even through the layers between them. He looks nervous, mouth a little red from the way the lipstick that’d transferred when they kissed, and absently Louis thinks  _that didn’t pass the test, then_.

“We’re not, like,” Harry begins, and there’s something pleasant about the way his voice rumbles against Louis’s chest, “dating, it’s just. Kissing. Only kissing.”

Louis wants to step away from him, disappear back upstairs, rewind so that he didn’t kiss him to tell him good morning. Hearing Harry talk about it being nothing but kissing, even if it’s true, makes his throat ache with unshed tears. Makes him feel like he’s splitting apart, cracking himself open like he’s done something wrong. It feels like simultaneously too much and too little, like nothing that small could explain what this means to him. Even if it doesn’t mean the same to Harry, and never will.

It was never going to be just kissing to him, he put himself in this situation, really, but. The pain doesn’t go away just because that’s true.

“Yeah,” he voices, and even to his own ears it sounds hollow, “just kissing, Leemo, nothing more.”

He probably imagines the way Harry tenses against him, leg stiffening where it’s looped around the back of Louis’s. He probably just wants it to be like that. It doesn’t mean it is.

Liam looks unconvinced, face gone a bit red like he thinks he’s intruded on something, and if there was ever a moment Louis has wanted to crawl into the ground and die more than this second, he’s pretty sure he must have been making it up.

“What about, like,” he frowns, “boundaries, and stuff?”

“We’re not children, Li,” Harry says, almost frustrated, “we can take care of ourselves.”

Liam sighs, like he’s still unsure, and Louis wonders if he remembers the time that they got piss drunk together and Louis told him he was in love with Harry. If he could remember the way his hands had shook as he’d said it, like he wanted to forget but couldn’t. He hopes not.

“You’ve just never been able to keep yourselves from smudging lines,” Liam says, sitting down on the edge of their sofa, and Louis blinks, a little miffed.

“What’s wrong with smudging lines? As if kissing can’t ever be platonic, or anything, like. It doesn’t have to be romantic, even if for a lot of people it is.”  _Even if I’d like this to be,_ he doesn’t say.

Liam frowns, again, and Harry nudges his knuckles into Louis’s spine, like he’s telling him to stay calm.

“But it’s kissing,” he says, like Louis and Harry are the ones not getting it, “you two, kissing.”

“Yeah, we kind of. Got that,” Harry leans in and presses a soft kiss to Louis’s mouth, and then leans back. Louis’s face goes pink, “see? Kissing. Without it meaning anything.”

Liam rubs his nose, and nods. “I guess if you’re fine with it, then. That’s up to you, not me. I’m sorry.”

Louis smiles weakly, but Harry tells him it’s fine, dimple sunken into his cheek like a crater.

Liam stays until three in the afternoon, and the whole time Louis wonders if he’s wrong about the eyes on his back, if Liam’s actually staring at him, or he’s just. Imagining it. If Liam does remember that night or not, if he knows how much this does mean to him.

He wonders until the moment Liam waves them off, and tugs Louis in for one last hug, mouth pressed against Louis’s ear so that Harry can’t overhear.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” His voice is soft, and gentle, and it aches, because he knows. “We all love you, and we don’t want to see you get hurt. Even if it’s not on purpose.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes his eyes shut, tighter, so that the tears that he’s been holding back don’t escape and ruin his makeup, “of course. Thank you.”

“Love you,” Liam says, pulling away, giving Harry a warm grin, “the both of you.”

Louis curls into Harry’s side, as they watch him walk away, and if he lets a couple tears fall, they’re gone before Harry glances at him.

++

Louis’s got one leg wrapped over Harry’s waist when he decides to call Zayn.

He nearly punches Harry in the jaw as he shuffles backwards to grab his Macbook, and he just lets out a resigned sigh, like he’s suffering at Louis’s hand. Louis loves him. He’s a dramatic arsehole, but Louis still loves him with everything he has.

“It doesn’t mean anything, right?” Louis asks, once Zayn picks up.

The Bradford man is rubbing at his temples, looking like he’s tired to the bone, and Louis has a moment of guilt when he realises it’s only eight in the morning.

“If you don’t want it to mean anything, it doesn’t have to,” Zayn replies, voice sleep rough, “it’s up to the both of you whether it should, and if you say it doesn’t, nobody should try and tell you otherwise. Liam means well, and he’s incredible, but he’s not right about everything.”

Harry grins into the back of Louis’s neck, and he can feel the way his breath puffs at some of the hairs there, and it feels so good that he doesn’t bother trying to stop it. Having Harry close to him, pressing soft kisses into his skin, feels a little like a reward for something he hasn’t done yet. A pre-ward.

“If you want it to mean something,” Harry adds, and Louis’s heart bounces a little bit in his ribcage, “that’s okay, too.”

“Um,” his voice is just this side of hysterical, “okay, alright. Okay.”

Zayn giggles, looking slightly more awake than he had been, and Louis just arches an eyebrow at him.

“You’ve got a lot to say for someone who has my initial tattooed on your hip.” He grumbles, and Zayn visibly blushes, tugs the duvet up to his chin, like Louis didn’t see the response to his words.

Harry just nips at the skin on the back of his neck, and Louis pretends that it doesn’t make him feel like he’s burning up.

“You’ve got a lot to say for someone with a tattoo of a dagger to match  _someone’s_ rose on their arm,” Zayn response, and Louis flushes, tips of his ears going warm.

Harry cackles, loud and bright, the way he always does when people bring up the complimentary tattoos. It’s like he asks for it, almost, always ready to show them off, how much Louis means to him, and for one warm, hopeful second, Louis lets himself believe it.

“Yeah, bye, Zayn,” he responds, and clicks the End Call button with his pinky finger.

A text comes through barely two seconds later, and Louis bites his lip as he reads it, because. False hope does a lot to a person, is the thing.

**from: z**

**to: louis**  
  
fuck you

And then, two seconds later:

**he loves you, you know. he’d never hurt you.**

++

“It’s your turn,” Louis says, staring at Arnie’s green leaves with narrowed eyes, “to water them. We flipped a coin last time, and I got heads. That means it’s your turn.”

Harry blinks at him, slow and steady, and responds, “I’m relaxing.”

Louis turns to him, angled brush in hand, and thinks about jabbing it right in his eye. It’d serve him right, honestly. As if Louis’s not relaxing. As if that isn’t the exact purpose of every Sunday known to humankind.

“I’m doing my makeup,” he responds, and sure, he’s mostly done, but the point remains. It’s Harry’s turn, fair and square, and Arnie’s going to die if he doesn’t water them. It’ll be on his conscience forever.

“I’m sure Arnie’d look gorgeous in that colour,” Harry points to the abandoned tube of NYX’s ‘Abu Dhabi’, glint in his eye like he’s determined to win, “it’d really suit them.”

Louis wonders why he ever agreed to move in with him. He’s a nightmare. A menace. He’s corrupted him beyond repair. He might as well just put him down, like a horse with a broken leg. It’s too late for him now. He should call and tell Anne that her son’s done for, has to go into retirement.

“You’d look better in it,” he shoots back, and there’s a part of his brain that tells him that’s probably not a particularly clever idea, but it doesn’t stop him, “if I kissed you, you’d probably do it, wouldn’t you?”

Harry blinks, slow, green eyes narrowed to slits. He looks so much like a frog it’s a little startling. He kind of gets where the fans get it from, honestly. Not that he’d ever tell him that.

“You can’t just kiss people to get your way.”

“It wouldn’t be kissing just anyone, though,” Louis rolls his eyes, “it’d be kissing  _you_.”

Harry takes in a deep breath, and slopes over, all round shoulders and look in his eyes like he’s unimpressed but still okay with the idea. He’s a loser, and yet. Louis’s a little bit in love with him.

He flops into Louis’s lap, and then a second later, there’s a lipstick-free mouth on his.

It’s as good as the first time, even if it’s slightly sticky from Louis’s lipstick. There’s something nice about the fact Louis knows he’s going to see it on Harry, and it won’t be because he put it on for him.

Harry pulls back after a second, lipstick smeared to the left of his mouth, and Louis leans back in to kiss a mark on top of it.

Harry waters Arnie, and Louis feels smug for more than one reason. Even if Harry acts grumpy for the following hour. It still feels like a victory when Harry kisses him again, softer than before.

Still feels like a victory when he turns around to start cooking, and he knows it doesn’t mean the same thing.

Having it in any way is good enough.

 

++

When he brings it up to Harry, they’re sat in a café in the middle of London.

Harry’s just settling down into the booth, having just written off an autograph to the person at the till, two cups of tea in his ridiculously big hand, when Louis lets it slip.

“I want to make tutorials,” his voice is quiet, but Harry hears anyway, eyes wide but warm, like he knows how much this means, “like. Post them on Instagram, like those beauty gurus do on Youtube, you know? Just. Short and good.”

Harry almost reaches a hand out to tangle their fingers together, but thinks better of it. They’re in public, and as much as they both want to, they can’t do that. There’d be more hell to pay from the higher ups than even their tweets had garnered (and they’d had to mute the phones for that).

“That’s incredible, little star,” Harry breathes, eyes glistening a little, “that’s so brave.”

“But,” his voice shakes a little bit, so he takes a small sip of the tea in Harry’s hand to soothe it, “I don’t know if I’d be allowed.”

“And?”

And. Well. He hadn’t really expected this, actually, Harry’s eyes suddenly turning hard and bright all at the same time, a diamond through and through. His diamond boy.

There’s something in his expression that makes him think of the first time they met, sixteen and eighteen, Harry tripping and pissing on Louis’s shoe, nervousness overtaking his features at the same time as eagerness. Makes him think of the months following that, the way Louis’s chest had tightened every time Harry gave him his undivided attention. Makes him think of the way it’s soothed out now, but still there.

Makes him remember why he’s in love with him.

“It’s, like, a little risky,” he says, around a mouthful of scalding hot tea, “but. I want to, anyway. I really want to.”

Harry nods, rips a bit of the croissant he’d bought off, and chews on it for a few seconds before swallowing.

“We can talk about it with the rest, if it makes you feel better.”

Louis nods, and. That’s that. It’s a tangible goal, within reaching distance, and it’s all he really wants.

 _Well_ , he thinks, glancing at the hand curled around the mug in front of him,  _that and this boy_.

 

++

 

Niall and Liam pull up at their house at ten the next morning, and nothing really compares to the way they both swallow him up in a hug, arms wrapping around him like string beans. They’re ridiculous, but they’re home.

“You’ve got summat you wanna discuss?” Niall asks, faux-serious, eyebrows wiggling. He’s adorable. A little golden retriever.

“That I do, Horan,” Louis responds, pretending to shove glasses up his nose, “that I do.”

Liam rolls his eyes and drags them into the living room, and Harry smiles up at them all from where he’s talking to Zayn on the couch.

He couldn’t get here, obviously, stuck in LA because of poor conditions, but. He’s on Skype, and that’s all Louis needs right now. All of them together, in the biggest decision of his life. (Well. Maybe he’s exaggerating, but that’s allowed. He’s allowed to be dramatic, every once in awhile.)

Louis curls up next to Harry, giving a small finger wave to Zayn, and Liam and Niall drag over the armchair from the corner of the room, so they can see Zayn as well.

“It’s big,” Louis says, and Liam tangles their fingers together, his version of saying  _I’m here,_ “like, it could affect all of us, and that’s why I wanted you all here, like.”

Niall’s eyes are soft but alert, and Louis smiles up at him.

“I want to start doing makeup tutorials,” he says, and, to their credit, none of them look at all shocked or upset by it. He chooses the best people to love, “on Instagram, but. Maybe eventually Youtube, it depends. I’m fairly good at it now, since I’ve been practising, and. I’d like to help people. Even like this.”

“I love you,” Zayn says, eyes soft, “that’s so great.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “that’s so incredible, Lou. That could help so many kids. You’re incredible.”

Louis blushes, plucks at the frayed strands of Harry’s shirt.

“I’m all for it,” Liam says, and there’s a look in his eyes that Louis’s seen from the times they’ve planned a prank together, mischief and readiness all mixed up with a dash of giddiness. “You’d be great at it, and Ni’s right. You could help so many people by doing it, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.”

“You’re golden,” Harry voices, and Louis presses a gentle kiss to his cheek in response.

“Now,” Niall starts, eyes bright, “you said something about doing our makeup?”

Louis grins, and they all sit still as he does it, Harry telling Niall through gritted teeth that if he moves Louis’ll kill him dead, and it’s good. It’s  _so_ good, all of them here, under his capable hands, as he blends eyeshadow over their lids and tells them what he’s doing.

It’s nice, being at home with his favourite people, doing what he loves best outside of performing.

It’s nice getting to talk about it, about the fear, and know they’ll stand by him no matter what, that they love him regardless.

He takes a picture of them, and it’s just for him. For right now, he’ll keep this moment to himself.  

 

++

Louis deliberates for an hour on what look he should do, before he decides. Simple, but elegant.

He starts rifling around for his soft brown eyeliner as Harry watches, smile playing on his lips, and Louis doesn’t bother smiling back, because he knows.

“Revlon’s ‘Sultry’, the one you ordered. It’d look good with that,” Harry voices, as Louis starts drawing on the soft dots on his eyelid, and Louis lets a grin play around his mouth.

“It’d look ace,” he agrees, and Harry lets out a long suffering groan at the pun, even if he smiles at it. Harry knows.

“Are you putting your camera on?” Harry asks, slowly sitting down next to him, knees popping a little. He’s an old man in a twenty-something’s body, Louis swears. He’s probably a time traveller.

Louis shakes his head, “this is just testing it out, first. Wanna make sure it looks good, but. The next try, yeah. If you stay with me.”

Harry doesn’t move from next to him as he applies the lipstick, or as he puts on a soft gold shimmer onto his lids. He stays next to him, because he has the whole time, and he loves him. And Louis loves him back, with everything he has, and he wishes he had the guts to say it, but. He doesn’t want to ruin something this good.

His hands shake as Harry passes the camera (one Harry had bought for him last Christmas, not nearly as professional as the ones Harry has tucked away in a box under his bed, but. It’s good enough, and it’ll do, and that’s all he needs, really. Something good enough.)

He clears his face free of makeup, and then switches it on. The shake won’t leave, so he settles it on a stool next to his set of drawers.

It’s faster, this time, he presses the dots on so easily it’s almost like he’s in fast forward, but then again. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to focus properly if he tried, at this point. Because it means something, doing this, showing it for the world to see. It’s not easy, but. Nothing good ever was.

By the time he’s applying his lipstick, soft and steady, the shake in his hands has disappeared, and he knows that it’s okay. That even if it gets deleted, people will see, and they’ll know, and it’ll be okay.

The world won’t explode under his feet, because he’s right next to him, tucked into his side, pressing kisses to his face with a look in his eye like pride.

++

 

The first text that comes through that he bothers checking, is from his mum.

**from: mum**

**to: louis**

**I’m so proud of you, baby. (You could have warned me, though. Got a lot of questions coming in. Told them to leave you alone, hope you don’t mind.) xx**

He grins into his hand, giddiness spreading like fire through his limbs, until it feels like he’s about to explode from the sheer force of it. Jesus. It’s proof he did it, that he actually posted it, that it means something, and it’s terrifying in the same way it’s exhilarating.

Harry curls up behind him as he replies with a shaky  **thsnk you love ypu sorru aboyt the questoons should have warnd yu** , and he grins into his neck.

“Commented on it, but. A lot of people got there first, unfortunately.” He says, and. Jesus. He’s really looking to get himself sued.

“That’s alright,” Louis responds, and his voice is steady, because he’s on top of the fucking world, “you were the first who mattered.”

Harry’s eyes go warm, soft and crinkly, dimple sinking into his cheek, and if Louis was braver, he’d take this moment to let the words out. To actually voice them, let them happen, tell him he’s in love with him and doesn’t know what to do with the constant tremble in his chest yelling  _I love you, I love you, I don’t know what I’d do without you._

He kisses him instead.

 

++

 

In the three days after, the internet doesn’t shut up. They just start yelling louder when all of the band tweets about it, when everyone related to him starts tweeting about how proud they are. When Harry tweets about eyeshadow and mascara, and Louis has to turn off his phone before it explodes from the response.

Louis sits on the phone for half an hour, legs dangling from the counter, biting his nail down to the bed with nervousness as their PR manager, Katie, talks about everything surrounding it, until she goes quiet.

“But it’s okay,” she says, and it’s the first time anyone in their management team has spoken to him with nothing but kindness, “you know what? It’s fine. You can post as many as you want. Fuck it. You’re an adult.”

It’s not as easy as that, obviously, there’s papers to sign and things to agree to, but. For the first time, it’s not something he has to do under the noses of every person in a position above him. It’s not something shameful he has to hide.

And Harry’s there the whole time, warm against his side, kissing his face, and telling him he loves him, and it’s okay. It’s good.

It’s  _great_.

 

++

 

The next photo is, arguably, the most important one, because it’s not him. It’s Harry.

“That’s a lie,” Harry responds, rolling his eyes as Louis takes three pictures in quick succession, all at different angles, “you’re prettier than I am.”

“It’s a statement,” Louis pipes back, and bite his lip thinking about a filter, “of how much I love you.”

Harry turns towards him, mouth pursed into a thin line, and he looks like Anne, a little bit, stern but still pleased. Like the idea of Louis loving him is pleasing, and. He tries not to think about it.

He adds a simple caption to the post, and. Then it’s out there, a picture of Harry plain and clear on his (extremely public) Instagram, and it’s possibly the most important part of all of this. Because it’s like coming full circle, from the person who made him feel comfortable and proud, to being the person he posts about on the internet, because if there’s one person Louis would spend his life talking about, it’s the person in front of him.

“I love you,” he says, and Harry’s face breaks into a grin, like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“Love you more, little duck,” he says, and the kiss he presses to his mouth feels like a promise.

He just doesn’t know what of.

++

 

It’s a little like sitting in the eye of the storm, Louis thinks, like being on the top of a cliff and watching the sea eat away at the rocks below, knowing you’re going to fall and not bothering to run away.

He sits there, at three in the morning, scrolling through the comments, and for every hateful one there are twenty positive ones, different ones about how important it is to see that sort of representation, about how good it is to see Harry and Louis being together, even in social media form.

It’s not hard, because it’s something he’s been facing for over three months now, the fear. He’s learned to manage it, but. There’s another one he still hasn’t took hold of, not really, not properly. The one that eats him up from the inside out every time Harry looks at him for a few seconds longer than necessary, the one that makes his throat burn when Harry kisses him, and he remembers that it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s not the fear of falling that bothers him any more. It’s the fear of never being able to get up.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Harry says, brushing his fingers through his damp curls, “give yourself a break for a little bit, starlight.”

“I want to dye my hair,” Louis responds, and. It’s true, he does, but that wasn’t. What he’d planned on saying, really. He’d planned on telling him, in the hazy warmth of the night, because you can pretend, at that time. You don’t have to think about it as much. It can be brushed off as sleep fever.

It’d be best to tell him now, but he’s missed his chance. Always misses his chances.

“Yeah? What colour?” He smells like warmth and everything Louis wants, scent of mint clinging to his hair even though it’s never stuck to his. It must be something about him, Louis thinks, that everything holds on to him.

That’s his problem. He’s never been good at letting go.

 _The colour of your eyes_ , he almost responds. He doesn’t. He’s not a fool.

“Rose gold, like that eyeshadow,” he knows Harry knows the one he’s on about, because he’s spent hours looking over his collection, helping him sort through to decide on which look he wants to wear.

Harry smiles, rubbing his nose, “A rose gold star. Almost unheard of. When?”

“As soon as we can find the colour,” he responds, “the second we get it, I want it. Need a change.”

He doesn’t mention why. Doesn’t mention that it’s partially because he’s in love with Harry, that he’s hoping maybe changing this part of himself will somehow make how he feels change. It won’t, but.

Everything’s worth a try.

 

++

It’s Niall who finds the colour, in the end, after five days of hopeless attempts, Snapchats a picture of it strapped into the passenger seat of his car, and damn near crashes because of it. He brings it over with a kiss to Louis’s cheek, and then he goes again, off to run some errand. Probably to play golf, realistically.

Louis bites his lip, and shows it to Harry from where he’s sat next to Arnie, talking animatedly to their leaves.

It’s endearing; but then again, everything Harry does is endearing. One of the side effects of being in love, or something.

“Incredible,” Harry grins, mouth stretching wide. He really does look like a frog. “Now?”

“Right now,” he agrees, “should probably do it in the kitchen, though. Because of the floor in here.” The floor’s shit, really, creaks all the time and needs repairing, but. Harry loves it anyway, and anything Harry loves, Louis’s prepared to protect with his everything.

They arrange themselves in the kitchen, Harry placing an old towel around Louis’s shoulders and under his legs (just in case, or something), and then it’s just the two of them, and a bottle of pink dye.

It’s combined with bleach, because doing the job apart and at home is a bit of a nightmare (he’d looked into it, and it looked terrifying, and a little deadly).

“You’re sure about this?” Harry asks, and his voice is gentle. Like if Louis wants to, he’ll just leave it somewhere dark, hidden away, never to be spoken about again.

“I’m sure about you,” it’s not an answer, Louis realises a second later, “but, yeah. I am.”

“You’re brave,” Harry says, and Louis bites his lip and agrees, because he is.

He’s come out the other side of all of this with one more skill under his belt, and he’s brave. Harry says it, and Harry wouldn’t ever lie to him.

Harry arranges the stool again, pushing it with his foot so Louis’s perfectly under the bright kitchen lights, and Louis tips his head back, and waits.

The first droplet feels a little like the first nail in the coffin, but he just nods softly anyway. Turning back’s the last thing he wants to do right now.

“Alright?” Harry questions, rustling the gloves around like he’s preparing to take them off in a second if Louis needs that.

“Always,” Louis breathes back, voice quaking, and it’s not that big, not in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like it. It feels like something new entirely.

Makeup’s temporary, lasts only as long as you have it on before clearing it off with a cleanser and cotton rounds, but this is more permanent. He can’t turn back from this, which. Stands for a lot of the things in his life as of right now, he thinks.

Harry squirts some onto his hand, and then he’s slowly rubbing it in, pulling his hair up and digging it into his roots before pulling his fingers out again. It’s like a head massage, the type that Zayn used to give him all the time when he was stressed on tour, except it makes him feel a little more tense than that had.

“I’m in love with you.”

He doesn’t know where it comes from. Doesn’t know from what dark recesses of his brain that had decided to drag itself out of, right as Harry’s got a bottle of poisonous dye in his hand that could blind him, but suddenly it’s out there. It’s spoken, and. He can’t take it back. Can’t do anything but close his eyes and freeze.

There’s fear choking him, like a hand tightened around his throat, like it’s squeezing all the air out of his lungs. This is big, and so much, and it could ruin everything they have.

Harry’s hands don’t still in his hair, but there’s a shake to them that wasn’t there before, like he’s just holding back from panicking. Jesus. Louis’s broken him.

He doesn’t speak, just keeps pulling his hands through, to the roots and back, working his fingers over and over like if he stops he won’t know what to do. He keeps doing it, just makes sure it’s finished, until Louis’s whole head’s covered, and he feels like he’s going to shudder out of his skin.

“Okay,” Harry breathes, voice unsteady, “um. I think I’m done. It’s all covered.”

He pulls back, and Louis senses his distance before he even turns around.

“Harry?” He asks, and. If he thought Harry’s voice was unsteady, it can’t compete with the way his words rattle out of him like smoke, wispy and barely there.

Harry’s gone slightly pale, like he’s terrified, eyes wide, mouth bitten raw, even though it’s been all of four minutes since he’d told him.

“Harry, I,” he stops, and there’s panic there that won’t leave. His hands are shaking. “I’m. Fuck.”

“You’ll need to, like,” Harry’s voice is about ten octaves higher than it usually would be, sounds like he’s sixteen again, “wash it out in about half an hour. That should do it. Um.”

“H,” Louis presses, raising his hands to his face so that he can hide his eyes, because he’s pretty sure he’s crying even if he can’t feel it yet, “God.”

Louis can just see him through the gaps in his fingers, and he’s shaking so hard it looks like someone’s rattling him from behind. But he doesn’t leave, and. That’s all he needs. That’s all he’s ever needed. For Harry to stay where he is.

“You know,” Harry begins, and there’s a tremor in his voice almost as strong as the one in his shoulders, “when you were eighteen, and I was tiny, I wondered what it was like to be in love.”

And. Louis doesn’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Doesn’t know if there’s even air anywhere near him, if that was a myth created thousands of years ago.

“But then you looked at me, like I was the most important person in the world, like. Like as long as I was with you, it’d be fine. Like my mum always used to say love looked like, and I never believed her. Because.”

Harry pauses, and there’s this shake in his jaw that Louis wants to kiss away, but he knows he can’t, not right now. Isn’t sure if he could stay long enough himself to not miss his face completely.

“Because how could someone as bright as you,” Louis removes his hands from his face, even though he knows there’s a tear making its way down his face, “how could the sun love anyone as insignificant as me? But. When I was with you, it wasn’t like I was insignificant. It was like I was the whole world. And it’s not stopped. And I don’t.”

His chest rises up and down a few times before he continues, “And I don’t ever want it to go away.”

Louis lets out a tight sob, raw and hoarse. It's so much, so, so much, and he feels a little like he's been wrung out to dry.

“You better not be fucking with me,” Harry continues, and there’s a steely edge to his voice, “you can’t be fucking around with me on this one, starlight. Please.”

“I’m in love with you,” Louis repeats, and there’s a panicked edge to it, because he can’t let Harry think for a moment that it’s anything but reciprocated, “of course I am, how couldn’t I be, Jesus. When you’re everything I ever wanted or needed, and you gave everything to me without me having to ask. I’m so in love with you.”

Harry breathes out on a sob, and then he’s walking back towards him, hands shaking, pressing a kiss to his mouth, and it’s different than what they’ve done before.

Because this time, they both know it means something.

Louis leans up into it, lets out a cut off whimper, presses his trembling fingers into the dip of Harry’s ribs he can feel through his soft shirt.

“God, starfire,” Harry mumbles, pressed against his cheek as he breathes deep, “scared the fucking shit out of me.”

“Thought you were going to have a heart attack over it,” Louis mumbles back, pressing a kiss to the edge of Harry’s shoulder bone, “just like you’re going to have a heart attack over me staining your skin pink.”

Harry jerks back in a second, and then lets out a cut off laugh, choked like he can’t believe it.

“It’s worth it,” he responds, and leans in to press another kiss to his mouth, “you’re worth everything.”

 

++

 

Harry washes it out for him, hands working it through, and Louis’s fingers don’t leave his wrist, fear still reverberating through his chest like he must be dreaming. Like he couldn’t ever deserve someone this indescribably good.

By the time he’s done, Harry just fiddling with the bits behind his ears and calling him ‘duckling fluff’, the way he always has when it sticks up of its own accord, there’s something a lot like fire pulsing through his chest.

It feels new, even though it isn't, even though they've had this for years. It's a different type of new that Louis's never experienced before. Because it involves Harry, and. Everything golden involves Harry.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and it’s not enough for all the things he wants to say, like  _you mean the world to me,_ and  _you’re so important_ and  _you’re everything I’ve ever loved._

“Right back at you, little star,” Harry mumbles back, pressing a kiss to his mouth, and it doesn’t feel like fireworks.

It feels like home.

 

++

++

 

**5 Months Later**

 

“You’re probably meant to consult them, you know,” Niall says, pacing and biting at his knuckle, “like, isn’t that one of the terms on your contracts?”

“Like it matters,” Louis responds, fiddling with the ace ring on Harry’s middle finger, “they didn’t sue me before.”

Niall tugs at his hair, like he’s about to explode, “that’s not the point! This is so stressful. This is why I only visit once a week.”

Harry blinks, “you visit three times a week, for lunch alone. You always steal our bread rolls.”

Niall pauses and glares at him, like Harry’s the one who’s lied. Louis wrinkles his nose and presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s cheek.

Niall softens, face going warm, the way it has every time he’s seen them together over the past few months. He tries to pretend he doesn’t love them, but. He was the first one to turn up when he heard the news.

Zayn sighs from where he’s sat against Harry on the other side, as if he didn’t come here willingly, just so he could be with them at, arguably, the biggest moment in their lives.

“Niall, we’ve talked about this,” he says, and Louis grins at him from over Harry’s shoulder, “so many times. They know they want to come out, and they haven’t given an exact date, so we’re taking it into our own hands. It’s not like there won’t be any warning, either. Liam’s sending a text the same moment they post it.”

Niall frowns, still looking mildly wary, but when Liam shows him the text (Already written, and spell checked by both Zayn and Louis), he nods instead.

“You ready?” He asks, and something rolls in Louis’s stomach.

He doesn’t think he’s going to be ready for this ever, really, but. He can handle it, and that’s the difference. He can handle it as long as he’s got everyone he loves by his side, his mum and sisters on Skype with Anne, Gemma and Robin.

“Yeah, I am,” he nudges Harry’s side, “you ready?”

Harry’s jaw’s gone a little slack, but his eyes are steely, the way they always are when he’s determined. Anne lets out a soft yelp from the other side of the screen, and Louis smiles because he knows the feeling.

They post it. The world doesn’t fall apart, and he’s still got Harry, pressed against his side.

 

++

 

“You know? I think wearing makeup was the best decision I’ve ever made.” Louis says, tracing the shape of a moon into Harry’s arm with his knuckle.

Harry presses a soft kiss to his mouth, and nods.

“I love you.” He says, gentle. It’s barely there, but Louis hears it, because he hears everything Harry says.

Louis links their fingers together, and leans his head against his shoulder, and it’s fine.

It’s great.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://polysamory.co.vu/) || [fic post](http://polysamory.co.vu/post/139264357991/we-could-be-stars-louisharry-23028-words) || [inspo tag](http://polysamory.co.vu/tagged/makeup%20fic)


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